


Someone Like You.

by WaywardAF67



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Elio POV, F/M, Fluff, Happy ending for Oliver and Elio, M/M, Pretend Elio Wrote Adele's Someone Like you., fifteen years later, musician Elio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-04-06 08:57:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14053446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardAF67/pseuds/WaywardAF67
Summary: It's been fifteen years since Elio last saw Oliver. After finishing an original piece he wrote for Oliver, Elio decides to play the song during a concert he booked at Oliver's university. Once he sees Oliver, after such a long separation, Elio's not sure he can lose him again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my fav, EllenOFOz for editing this. I make changes after she looks it over, so as always all mistakes are my own.  
> This is my first dip into the CMBYN fandom. I am basing this off the book, so if you have only seen the movie it will probably not make sense. Go read the book it's so amazing. Though I'm sure some movie references slip in from time to time. I've used direct quotes from the book and in no way try to pretend they are mine, I just like sliding those in from time to time. Thanks for giving this a chance. I hope it holds up.
> 
> I know nothing about creating a song. Please be kind to me. If you spot something that needs to be changed please let me know and I will adjust it.

I sit down to play my latest piece. I'm still not ready to call it complete. Because once it’s complete—lyrics finished, notes lined up in perfect chords, revised for the last time—I would have to see him.

It was a dumb idea. One born from a drunken trip down memory lane. 

_ I  just got off the phone with my mother. Oliver and his family are staying with my family at the villa. He and his wife, staying in my old bed––our old bed. His sons staying in the room next door.  _ Time makes us sentimental. Perhaps, in the end, it’s because of time that we suffer. _ I pour myself a drink and think about that summer. My summer with Oliver.  _

_ Oliver with his tanned skin, perfect mouth, and his “Later.” _

_ I drink dry Gin martinis and sit at my upright Baldwin. It’s old, and nothing like the Steinway I played back in Italy, but it’s a step up from the keyboard I was playing the year prior. I play a few notes. Nothing in particular, just making noise when I remember a poem I started the night we got Oliver’s letter. The one he sent after Vimini died.  _

_ I don’t intend to write a song, but a melody pours out of me, matching chords to the words I wrote so many years ago. It’s haunting––beautiful and melancholy.  _

 

_ E C# B A E E C#  _

_ I heard, that you’re settled down _

_ That you found a girl and you’re, married now _

_ I heard, that your dreams came true _

_ I guess she gave you things _

_ I didn’t give to you _

 

_ I stay up until three in the morning. I’d played around with writing my own music, but nothing has ever come so naturally to me. I, as any pianist, was most inspired by the classics. Liszt, Brahms, Bach, this is in no way like those.  _

_ I wake the next day, laying on the floor next to my piano with a pounding head. There are crumpled sheets of manuscript paper all around me, a half-drunk martini and my diary sit on the end table near my head. It takes me a minute to remember what happened. The phone call, the alcohol, the song. I rush to check my stand, instantly regretting getting up so quickly. I wobble before dropping down on my bench. There, in my messy scrawl, is the beginnings of a song. I play what’s in front of me, instead of trying to play from memory. I was very drunk, and some notes fall flat, but it’s something I can work with. _

 

_ Old Friend, Why are you so shy _

_ Ain’t like you to hold back _

_ Or hide from the light _

 

_ I cry. I’m on the brink of something beautiful, yet so painful. I hadn’t thought about that poem in several years, but it brought back the pain so immensely. With just a few words I was transported back to Heaven. Oliver laying there in his green swimsuit--my favorite Oliver––me transcribing someone else’s music. That moment quickly morphing to the kiss in the bathroom stall before he left me, then changing to the last kiss we shared before he left me for good after he told me about the engagement. I felt it all as if it were only yesterday, not eleven years. Because eleven years was yesterday, and yesterday was just earlier this morning, and morning seemed light-years away. _

_ It’s a strange feeling, but I know I can’t abandon this piece. It has been years in the making, and I figured it would take years still to finish it. Mostly consisting of drunken nights when I’ll pull Billowy from the back of my closet, and drink Gin martinis. But something inside of me can’t let it go. I know where Oliver teaches, and I know if I wanted to, it would be easy to find him. In my pathetic hungover state I decide I will finish the song, and perform it for him. I will book a concert at his school and personally invite him. It’s petty and more childish than I had acted since I knew him, but I have to do it. This will be my closure.  _

It took me four years to finish. It had been fifteen years since I last saw Oliver and I was considering seeing him face to face. As I suspected four years ago, it would be easy to book a concert at Oliver’s university. What wasn’t easy was my plan of inviting him. He would know the song was about him. And if I walked into his office after so long and asked him to attend the concert, how would that make me look? Would I appear as desperate as I was? 

I thought of him more over the past four years than I had the previous four. Not always, but when the mood was right, I would pull out my diary and write a little more. Adding more to my poem, forming them into actual lyrics. The idea of inviting him influencing the chorus.

 

_ I hate to turn up out of the blue uninvited, but I _

_ Couldn't stay away I couldn't fight it _

_ I had hoped you'd see my face _

_ And that you be reminded that for me it isn't over _

 

I never sang for Oliver, nor did I ever sing in a performance. But this was something I had to do. I had decided I needed my closure, and now was the time. The piece was as good as it was going to get. I had to call my manager and get a date on the books. Then, I had to see Oliver. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, for the sake of my story Elio still live in that same New England town that is only fifty miles from Oliver. He's does music things for a living. I don't understand music at all. Also "Good God-Elio", is my favorite line from the audiobook. I had to keep it.

I’ve lived within fifty miles of Oliver for years. I toyed with the idea of this song for a very long time, with no real completion date in mind. I never figured I would have the courage to finish it, just as I never had the courage to ask if it was better to speak or die. I sometimes wonder if I spoke when Oliver asked _“Do you mind?”_ if anything would be different. I would have known, one way or another, if I mattered to him as much as he mattered to me. But as sure as Oliver knew himself, I also knew him––for I was him. I knew that I would die if I didn’t speak, but with that I got to hold the hope that I could’ve changed things.

In the rare moments when I let myself be honest, I know that it wouldn’t have mattered. I think that’s why I didn’t answer. I could pretend it would have mattered, and grasp at that shred of hope. That he cared enough to let me influence him.

I was a child then. As an adult, I knew there were many things keeping Oliver from me. His comment about his father carting him off to a correctional facility being the most important. Following the path his parents laid for him was not something he admitted adhering to, but it was painfully obvious, at least in hindsight.

Now, all I have to do is travel a measly fifty miles, wait until Oliver’s class is over and walk up to him. Choosing this time to speak, well sing, actually. But I had to speak to him in order to invite him. Would he even remember me? Had I been clinging to the memory of a man who wouldn’t know me as I stood in front of him? The man I compared every lover to, even if it was only a passing thought as the years went by. Will he call me Elio, or will he remember me as Oliver?

 

_Never mind I'll find someone like you_

_I wish nothing but the best_

_For you too, don't forget me_

_I beg, I'll remember you said_

_Sometimes it lasts in love_

_But sometimes it hurts instead_

_Sometimes it lasts in love_

_But sometimes it hurts instead ye-ah_

 

I push down the regret as I pull into the parking lot of his University. I’ve already booked the show, I can’t back out now. But I don’t have to play the song. If I play the song I’ll be no more mature than the boy Oliver knew fifteen years ago. I wanted my closure, but at what cost? I remember my father’s words: _We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster, that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty...but to make yourself feel nothing, so as not to feel anything––what a waste._

I stand outside his lecture hall at thirty-two. Am I bankrupt? In doing this, will I close off the joy I felt, that caused such pain? I felt so strongly for so many years. Then, slowly, I locked Olivier in my past. Put him on ice and tucked him away in the deepest recess of my mind.

My hand shakes as I open the door. I want to tell him why I’m inviting him. Tell him my plan, or give him some kind of hint, when really all I am looking for is a sign of how he will react. Will he reject me or be appalled? Will he sit in his seat, next to his wife, and shrink down into his seat knowing that the song, the entire concert, was just for him? He might think I’m pathetic and pity me. I needed to know, but I would have to wait. If I did give him a hint, he might now even show.

Before I know it, I’m standing in front of him. Rubbing my hand against my cheek. My beard is smooth and offers me a small comfort. “Hi, you probably don’t remember me. I’m––”

“Good God–Elio!” He pulls me into his embrace. I feel like I’m seventeen again, and we still have the entire summer ahead of us. But just as the summer ended too quickly, so did the hug.

“What are you doing here? How are you?” He asks.

I can’t help but give him my brightest smile. He seems truly happy to see me, calming many––most––of my fears. “I, um, I’m performing a concert here in a few weeks and I wanted to, ah, to invite you.” My hands were sweaty and trembling, there was no backing out now.

“That’s you? I saw the flyers, but I didn’t know. I’ll come. Of course I’ll come.” He pats my face. “I can’t believe it’s really you. How long will you be in town?”

“I’ll be here a few days. I’m a guest speaker in Dr. Claire’s music class tomorrow. ” I respond.

Oliver laughs and grasps my shoulder. “Be careful with her, Elio. She will eat you alive if you let her.” I am grateful he doesn’t leave a breath for me to answer.

“Listen, I have this stupid dinner thing I can’t get out of tonight, but let’s have dinner tomorrow. You can meet my wife and my boys.”

I’m denying the request before he’s even finished, shaking my head. “I’m sorry, I––”

“Drinks then? Just you and I. We have fifteen years to make up for.”

It was so like him to feel my discomfort. I couldn’t face his family, and he saw that in me. Oliver has been the only person, in all these years, who has ever been able to read my mind.

“Drinks, then,” I say. Wondering if he will remember the way we used to speak. Always parroting each other. Based on his smile, I assume he does.

Oliver reaches for a pen and a sheet of paper ripping it in half. He quickly scribbles his number down and hands me the pen and other half of paper. “Give me your cell phone number. If you have one. Or your hotel number.”

We exchange sheets of paper and before I can look away, he wraps his large hands around my shoulders. “Fifteen years, Elio. It’s too long.”

“Far too long.” I say. Debating if I should hug him goodbye. I want to hug him, but I don’t know if I have that right. I don't have to debate long because Oliver, with his hands still around my shoulders, pulls me against him.

As I pull away I look him in eyes and tell him, “I look forward to tomorrow.”

_You know how the time flies_

_Only yesterday it was the time of our lives_

_We were born and raised_

_In a summer haze bound by the surprise_

_Of our glory days_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lovely editor is off having a great time with her family. I didn't want to distract her from her fun but wanted to get this chapter up as soon as I could. I don't want anyone to lose interest. So please forgive any mistakes. And as always please forgive my lack of musical knowledge. I should had chosen a different career for Elio lol

It’s eight am, and I can’t sleep. I’ve been tossing and turning all night, but have finally decided to get up and take my morning jog. I lace up my sneakers and do a few stretches before I head outside. It’s a beautiful spring morning, nothing like the mornings in Italy when Oliver and I used to run together, but I can’t help thinking of him. So much went unsaid between us those earlier weeks as we ran along the shore. But Oliver and I never really needed to talk. The older I got, the more I convinced myself that I was just a dramatic teenager, and what Oliver and I had was not as special as I remembered. But seeing him yesterday, having him feel my discomfort reminded me that it was all real.

My feet slap the pavement, and my breathing is labored. There is a park near my hotel, and it’s alive with energy. There are mothers with their toddlers, dogs running free and barking, and a strange ringing that seems to be following me.

It dawns on me that the ringing is my blackberry, and I just missed a call. Frantic that it was Oliver, I rush to call back. Not even checking to see if it was, indeed him.

“Elio,” his voice booms from the small speaker.

“Oliver, hey,” I say trying to hide that I’m out of breath. Of course, he sees right through me.

“You still jog in the mornings?” He asks.

“I still jog. Do you?”

“Yeah, I do. My class is about to start, but how does Roberto’s at seven sound? It’s not going to taste like pizza from home, but it’s the best in town,” He says, hope resounding in his voice.

“That sounds great. Roberto’s at seven. Have a good class, Oliver.”

“Later.”

I have to laugh. I wonder if he still uses later or if he was just saying it for my benefit. His use of the word home rattled around in my head as I jog back to my room and shower. Does he still feel like B. is home? On one of our many days in _Heaven_ , he said being there felt like coming home. I was arrogant enough at the time to think he meant I was like coming home. Perhaps he meant both.

I order room service after my shower. I don't have to be back at the University until two in the afternoon. I imagine what it would be like to have a set schedule like Oliver or Dr. Claire. How nice it would be to teach music, instead of traveling the world playing. It was fun at first, but it got tiring. It was nice to be admired and respected in the community, but there were so many sacrifices I had to make. It makes me wish my father were still here. He was always one to support me and guide me without telling me what to do.

Oliver was right about Dr. Claire. She is a firecracker. A beautiful petite woman with an Australian accent, and a flair for the dramatics. I love her instantly. She invites me out for drinks and were it not for plans with Oliver, I would accept. I ask for a rain check, but she only shoots me a wink and says “We’ll see.” I hope she agrees.

She leaves me alone in the music hall. I didn’t bring my portable keyboard and felt like practicing the song. I sit down and slowly caress the keys. As I play, a lump forms in my throat. It’s a fear I’ve had since I finished the piece. Would I be able to play without cracking? Would it matter if I did? I’m humming to myself as I play the final chorus when I hear footsteps behind me. I turn abruptly because though it’s not the slap of espadrilles, I still recognize his footfalls.

“Still plunking, I see.” He says, casually leaning against the piano. “That was beautiful. What is it?”

I hesitate to tell him the truth, but maybe it will make things easier when the time comes to play for him. He’ll know, without really knowing. “It’s an original. I’m performing it at the concert.”

“Any chance I can get a sneak peek?”

“Of that song? No. But I have something I think you’ll like.” I smile as I start to play.

Oliver burst out laughing. I didn’t know if he would remember, but I hoped he would.

“All these years, and you still won’t play Bach’s version. Who was it this time?” He moves to sit beside me on the bench. I feel my pulse quicken, but try to hide it.

“Capriccio BWV 992 in the manor of Elio Pearlman.” I beam.

“It’s the best version I’ve ever heard you play. I like that you have your own style now.” He sounds so sincere. Like he’s proud of my accomplishments.

“I know a lot more than I did when I was just a kid.”

“You were never _just a kid_ Elio. Not to me.”

The conversation makes sweat breakout against my forehead. All these years of remembering Oliver, I focused mostly on how he hurt me. How he left me behind as he moved on. I think I did exactly what my father asked me not to do, ripping out the joy I felt to rid myself of the pain.

I had forgotten how kind Oliver was. With just a few words he could ease my soul. I wanted to fling myself against him and make him hold me until I forgot the last fifteen years. I wanted to go back in time and never come here at all, to a life where he was nothing more than a distant memory. Having him here, his knee touching mine was torture. The good memories were slowly taking over the bad, and it felt like I was drowning. I wish I would have remembered only the good from the beginning. If I had, maybe I would have been able to move on entirely.

I jump up from the bench and walk around the piano. “Are you done with classes?”

I can see on his face that he knows he went too far. He rises slowly and gives me a sad smile. “Yeah, I have office hours until 6. I was just going to hang around until dinner. It’s too much hassle to go home first.”

Even as my heart is aching, I want to make him feel better. I want to tell him it’s not his fault. That I understand why he left and why he couldn’t choose me. But the words are stuck in my throat, so instead, I say that I’ll wait for him. That we can leave for dinner when he’s done with his office hours. It doesn’t make up for fifteen years of guilt and heartbreak, but it’s enough to make him smile. A bright, straight white teeth smile.

“Alright then. I’ll come grab you when I’m done.”

I watch him leave, not even trying to hide it. When he reaches for the door, he turns back to me and smiles. From across the room, it looks like he’s blushing, but I can’t be sure. I think it’s just wishful thinking.

***

Oliver and I walk to two blocks to Roberto’s chatting about his office hours. He has several students that come in every week with made up problems. I tell Oliver they must have a crush on him, and he only laughs. He’s still shy.

We are seated quickly, and he asks me if I still drink martinis. When I confirm that I do, he asks the waiter for two--Sapphire Gin he insists. We make perfunctory small talk while waiting for our drinks. Oliver has never been a picky eater, so it’s up to me to decide on what pizza I want.

With our order placed and our drinks filled, we have time for more than just small talk. We talk about my work with the Stabile Orchestrale Fiorentientin in Tuscany. He’s impressed that I played with such a prestigious orchestra. I state that this is my crowning achievement. We discuss my travel and the types of music I’ve played. I ask him about this work on the pre-Socratics and his latest book. He’s currently working on his manuscript about Protagoras.

“Man is the measure of all things..” I quote.

“...Of the things that are, that they are, of the things that are not, that they are not,” Oliver finishes.

I feel bold. I’ve always felt bold around Oliver. “So, are you living your truth, Oliver?”

Oliver rubs his index finger over the rim of Martini glass and looks down at me. “What’s true for me must be a lie for you.”

My breath hitches. Have I ever lived my own truth? If Protagoras believed there are two arguments opposed to one another, does that mean I’ve been arguing for the wrong side? Oliver’s truth is his wife and kids, but what’s mine? Was the only time I’ve genuinely lived the Summer of ‘87? I don’t feel like it is. I’ve been happy since Oliver. Went months on end without thinking about him. I’ve had lovers and great relationships. How is it that I’ve not lived my own truth? Is it because I’ve been saving myself to fight for Oliver? What would I say? Leave your wife and your sons. We had two weeks together, and nothing in my life has compared to those sunny days? Maybe I am not here to fight. Maybe the song is my way fighting for him. I cloaked it under the guise of closure, but did I really want that? Or did I want Oliver to rush the stage, hold me up like he used to, and tell me he should never have left?

“You’re thinking too hard.” Oliver interrupts my thoughts.

I laugh, “We’re talking philosophy, of course, I’m thinking too hard.”

Oliver throws his head back and laughs--he’s so beautiful. “Enough about my boring life, let's talk about you. You’re practically a rock star.”

It’s my turn to laugh. I’m the furthest thing from a rock star. “Yes, I really rock out playing Busoni.”

“Are you not happy playing anymore?”

Our food arrives before I can answer, and in real Oliver fashion, he quickly digs in. He doesn’t say anything, only signals with his hand to keep going.

“I still love playing. It’s just stressful finding work. The contracts seem to be getting shorter, and the flights are longer. I have done some composing, but I think I want to look into teaching. I’m not sure all that will require. If I’ll need to go back to school to get an educators degree.”

“You should talk to Dr. Claire. She is retiring soon and raved about you. I am sure she could help you out.” Oliver is on his second slice of pizza before I’ve taken my first bite.

“When did she find time to talk about me?” I ask.

Oliver's fanning his mouth because the bite he took was too hot. He eats at a rapid pace, but still has manners. I stare at him while he chews his food, waiting for my answer.

“She stopped by my office before we left. She was asking about you.” His tone was light, and I felt like he was teasing me.

“You’re the one who told me to steer clear.”

He raised his glass in a mock salute. “It’s good advice, too.”

The rest of the meal passes with teasing and laughter. Oliver doesn't talk about his family. I suspect it’s for my benefit, but I’m not sure. The problem with knowing each other so well is that I know there is something there. Something is making him unhappy. I was fooled by his bravado when I was a teenager, but I can see it plain as day now. It may not be his family. It may be his work, his mother, his health. But there is something there, and I hope to be around long enough to find out what it is.


	4. Oliver's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am writing about a lot of things I don't know about. So if I got something wrong about teaching please forgive me.

“Becs, I’m home,” I call, hanging up my jacket.

“Kitchen,” she yells. 

I walk into the smell of a casserole baking. The scent of butter lingers in the air and I know she’s been stress cooking. It's my night to feed the kids, so her being in the kitchen tells me something is amiss. She stands over the stove, chewing on her fingernails, a habit she picked up when we quit smoking several years back. She only does it when she’s worried. 

“Hey,” I say, as I slide onto a stool at the kitchen counter. 

She turns to me, a genuine smile spreading across her face. “Hey! How did it go?” 

It’s clearly a deflection, but one she might need, so I play along. “It was great. He’s still the same after all these years. Hairier, but still the same.” 

“I’m glad you had a nice time.” The alarm on the stove dings before she can say anything more on the subject. “I know it’s your night to cook, but I expected you home later. I hate the boys eating so late, even if they don’t have school tomorrow.” 

It wasn’t meant as a disparagement, but I feel chastised all the same. “I’m sorry,” I say. Rising from my stool to relieve her from kitchen duty. The food is done, but there are still dishes that need to be washed. 

“Don’t apologize. I left work early, and needed to cook.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”  I ask while loading the dishwasher.  

“I do, but not right now. Tell me more about the hairier, yet still the same Elio. Did he like Roberto's?” Rebecca is a saint. Always one to put others emotions before her own. It's no surprise that she has a way with words—she is a professor for the Linguistics Department specializing in Cognitive Linguistics, after all. 

She’s one of the two women in her department, and, were the school more progressive, she would be a prime candidate for the head of the department. The school she teaches at, as it were, is an overgrown boys club, to use her words.

“We just caught up. He told me about his work and told him about mine. We talked about Protagoras–” 

“Ollie, you didn’t.” She stops plating the steaming chicken pot pie and turns to me. 

“What?” I tease. “He likes philosophy.” Rebecca thinks all philosophical discussion is boring and there is no way anyone could like it. I turn to her, throwing the dish towel on the counter. “Well, I don’t actually know if he likes it per se, but he knows enough that he must not hate it.” 

Rebecca only laughs at my response before calling the boys down to dinner. I don't plan on eating, but sit down at the table anyway. It's our nightly ritual. My time to learn how the boys did in school, or if anything unusual happened to them. 

Adam, my oldest, just turned fourteen. So my time of having him at the dinner table every night will soon be limited. He’ll be going out with friends, joining study groups, and if he makes the soccer team for the high school, he’ll have practice and games. 

In just three years he will be the same age Elio was when I first met him. He’s closer to the Elio I knew then than the man that walked through my door yesterday.  _ Talk about uncanny.  _

We are climbing into bed when Rebecca finally speaks. “I got the call.” 

I look at her with a shocked expression. “And?”

“They offered me the job, and I think I’m going to take it. Oliver, I can’t not take it. I know it’s a new school, and I’m scared, but I’ll probably never get this opportunity again. I want to take it. ”

I pull her closer to my side. It’s been months since we’ve touched like this. “Of course you do, Becs. I knew you were going to get the job. You’d be the first woman ever to head the department. It’s your dream.” 

“It’s not exactly my dream. I don’t want to leave the boys. I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to start over at a new school.” She chokes back a sob. 

“I know.” I stroke her hair. 

She and I had been in marriage counseling for years before we quit going last year. We never fight, parenting is easy with her, and she is the best woman I know. But somewhere along the way, we fell out of love––to use a cliche.  

Several months ago she ran into an old professor of hers. He’s currently head of the linguistics department at her alma mater and looking to retire. They caught up and have been talking weekly. He eventually convinced her to apply for the job, and after several interviews and trips across the state, she had finally been offered the job. 

There was no talk about us trying to make things work. She never asked me to move with her, and I never offered. If this had happened five years ago, there wouldn't have been a question as to me following her. 

The hardest decision is what to do with the boys. It's something we discussed several times throughout the interview process. As any mother would, she wants them to be with her. Even though she's only moving a few hours away, she doesn't want to leave them behind. I, of course, want them to stay. They have friends here, they are in one of the best schools in the state, and grew up in this home, which I’m keeping. 

When she took her final interview, Rebecca finally conceded and admitted that it would be best for the boys to stay where they were comfortable. She felt a crushing sense of guilt and didn’t want to discuss the schedule of their visits until she had been offered the job. No sense in worrying ourselves yet, she had said. I never had any doubt that she would get the job. 

"Is this the right choice, Oliver? Am I giving up my children for my career?" Her voice is strained from the crying. 

"You get to be a person too, Becs. You're not abandoning them. You're just seeing them a little less often." I don't know if I believe that, but I know that sooner or later the kids would have been split between us. Our marriage hadn't been working for a very long time, and if this job weren't the final nail in the coffin, seeing Elio would have been. 

He is still beautiful, more so than I remembered. Maybe it's because I am pushing middle age, and I only recall the image of the seventeen-year-old I knew. But when I think of him, I'm just twenty-four. 

I followed his work during the early years of his career, but there were not many pictures of him, and the ones I did see were of him at his piano, or with a group of other musicians. But seeing him, standing just a few inches shorter than I, transported me back to Italy. His face and body are different, but the feelings are the same. 

I have always loved Rebecca. She has been a solid foundation in my life for longer than anyone I have known. But I never felt for her what I felt seeing Elio yesterday. It's not fair to her, but if I'm honest with myself, she has never felt for me what I saw in Elio's eyes as we parted. The warmth and affection are so easily accessible. Elio has always worn his heart on his sleeve. 

As I doze off, I hope that Elio and I can at least maintain a friendship. And though I was comforting my wife not even an hour ago, I hope there is a chance for that friendship can grow into something more. 


	5. Elio

The morning after my dinner with Oliver, I drive home in silence. In the past, I would always run from my memories of Oliver, bury them deeper the moment they surfaced. Now, I want to relive every moment from the night before. Every smile, every joke, every accidental touch. I felt alive for the first time in years. I didn’t know keeping Oliver out of my thoughts was so much work, but now remembering him feels like I'm waking up from a coma. If I had known seeing him would give me so much freedom, I would have done this several years ago. Though, I’m not sure I would have felt the same liberation then. It’s been fifteen years, and I’m finally taking my father’s advice, letting the good moments outshine the bad. 

I spend the next few days focusing on my singing. I was never classically trained, but spending most of my adult life around musicians, I picked up a lot of information. I don’t have a voice that’s going to put me on the top 100 chart, but I’m not going to embarrass myself at the concert either. 

It’s been three days since I last saw Oliver. Strange how I went years on end being fine without him, but here I am, seventy-two hours later, and I feel like I have to talk to him. I’m thinking of calling him—planning what I’ll say, or how I’ll respond to different things he might say—when my phone rings. It should surprise me that he’s calling at the exact moment I was planning on reaching out to him, but it doesn’t. 

“Hello?” I answer casually.

_ “Elio, it’s Oliver.”   _

“Oliver, Hi. How are you?”

_ “I’m well, thanks. I’m glad I caught you. I thought I was going to have to leave a voicemail. Uh, are you going to be back in town anytime soon? I had a great time the other night, and thought if you were going to be around, we could do it again.” _

My heart is pounding. Oliver enjoyed our night as much as I did. I don’t know if maintaining a friendship with him will help me move on, or make things more difficult, but it’s worth the effort to find out. 

“I don’t have anything on the books until a few days before the concert, but if you want to meet for dinner some night soon, we can arrange that.”

_ “Yeah? Well look, you came here last time. If you want, I can drive to you.” _

“Oh, I don’t mind driving. I’m sure it’s better for you to stay close to home in case your family needs you or something.” 

_ “No, no. It’s not a problem. I could use a break from being dad and husband. I’d just like to be Oliver for a little while if that’s okay with you.” _

Now I’m certain he must hear my racing heart on the other end. Did Oliver just tell me that he wants to be around me to feel like himself? Am I reading too much into this? I go back to worrying if this is a good idea. 

_ “Elio? Are you there?” _

“Yes, I’m here. Sorry. I was just trying to think of a place we could go. Were you thinking this weekend?” 

_ “Yeah, if that’s okay?” _

We talk about where to go and what time to meet. All the platitudes of planning a dinner with a friend you don’t see often. It all feels so normal as if we’ve been doing this for years. By the time we hang up, we have dinner on the calendar and have exchanged email addresses as well. It feels nice knowing that Oliver wants to keep in contact. It’s selfish—and probably dangerous—but I like being the one he turns to for a reprieve. Maybe that will be my role in his life now, because it seems as though we are going to maintain a friendship. Just two old pals reconnecting, and surprisingly, that doesn’t hurt as much as I imagined it would. Maybe last year it would have, but now I am just grateful to have Oliver in my life at all. 

_ Nothing compares no worries or cares _

_ Regrets and mistakes they're memories made _

_ Who would have known how bittersweet _

_ This would taste _

***

 

Over the next several days we exchange emails. Nothing involved, or even personal, just silly observations or anecdotes. 

_ Did you see what Bush did? _

_ Have you seen this video? _

_ I think we should eat here. I think you’ll like it. _

By the time the weekend rolls around, I’m anxious. It’s always been easy to talk to Oliver, but I worry this will be the time things get uncomfortable. Besides the initial phone call and emails, we have spoken on the phone one other time, putting us in contact every day since I walked back into his life. He has started to talk about his children more, but never more than a passing comment about his wife. I still think it’s for my benefit, but if Oliver and I are indeed going to be friends, I need to get used to hearing about her. I think about telling him that during dinner when I remember that Oliver might not want to continue seeing me after my performance. The more I talk to him, the more I consider omitting the song. 

I’m standing outside the restaurant when he arrives. He smiles and pulls me into a hug the moment he’s within arms reach.  

“Hey, rockstar,” Oliver says. 

“You’re really not going to let that go, are you?” I joke. 

“Not a chance.” Oliver drapes his arm around my shoulder, leading me into the restaurant. We are seated right away, and Oliver orders his first drink.  

“So, it’s a gin before small talk kind of night, ay professor?” I keep my tone breezy, but I’m hoping he’ll hear my concern. Since Oliver has always spoken in riddles, I assume he has no trouble decoding them. 

“Ah ah ah. I’m not a professor tonight, remember. I’m not dad. I’m not 'did you remember to do X, Oliver.' I’m just me. The me you used to know. I may look older, but for tonight, I’m twenty-four again.” Oliver leans across the table and toasts my drink. 

“Well, if it’s okay with you, I’d rather not be seventeen again. God, I was awkward.” I rub my fingers across my brow. We are quickly sliding into dangerous territory, and I haven’t had enough to drink for this. And I certainly didn’t plan responses for such an open, carefree Oliver. It’s invigorating, having to think in the moment, but slightly terrifying. So often I plan and rehearse everything I want to say. As though I never grew out of the dinner drudgery conversations, and I still must rush to make myself heard. 

“No, you weren’t. You were adorable. I see you're still putting yourself down after all this time.” 

I stare at him, challenging him the way I did that day at the berm. “Maybe I’m still scared of what you’ll think of me.” 

I wasn’t expecting Oliver to throw his head back and laugh, but he does. He drains his drink before responding. “It still amazes me that you never saw just how much I cared for you. How much I still care for you.” 

I gape at him. He rushes to add, “I’m sorry. I haven’t eaten today, and it seems the alcohol has gone straight to my head.”

“It’s okay. If you remember, you’re the one who said we couldn’t speak of these things. If I can be frank, it feels nice to hear that it wasn’t some romanticized novel in my head. The more time that passes, the more I wonder how genuine the memories are...or more the feelings, I guess.” 

Oliver nods, but we are interrupted by the waitress before he can respond. Just as I felt then, I worry I shouldn’t have said anything. I consider saying as much, but refrain—what’s done is done.

He’s got his second drink in hand before he says, “I told Rebecca. I was scared she would be disgusted with me, that she would be mad that I lo–ah, cared for someone else after getting back together with her. But she understood. I think she maybe went through a similar situation. I think I was her second choice.” 

I’ve only just finished my first drink, but I feel as though I’ve been drunk for hours, clammy and a little nauseous. 

“Oliver?” I couldn’t bring myself to ask. I couldn’t bring myself to hope. I was supposed to be getting closure. How am I going to move on when Oliver just told me—at least I think it's what he means–that his wife was not who he wanted to be with? 

“My parents brought her with them when they picked me up from the airport. She looked as lost as I did. Falling into our old patterns after that was easy. Our parents pushed us to get married, and so we did. We have always been good together, and so life was easy. When she got pregnant, that changed things. We were no longer playing at being happy, we were happy. Several years after Alex was born I told her about you. She told me about her summer and why she was unhappy. Then we moved on.” 

I now understood why Oliver never brought her up. Why it was easier for him to keep the two of us separate. I didn’t know what to say. I was grateful the waitress brought our food at that moment. It gave me a few moments to compose myself. To plan a response. I asked the waitress to bring us another round of drinks, hoping for a quick distraction in case I started making a fool of myself. 

For all the time I spent thinking, the food was delivered. I still put my foot in my mouth. “I didn’t—I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” 

Oliver chuckled. “Goose. Of course, you didn’t know. So what about you Elio, any grand love stories?” 

Only ours, I think. “Ah, no. Musicians are fickle, and it’s not easy to have anything serious when you bounce from orchestra to orchestra.”

Oliver clicks his teeth, “Pity.” 

“This is not at all what twenty-four-year old me would have done. I’m ordering a round of shots. This conversion has gotten to be too serious for my night of freedom. Whaddya say, you in?”

“I’m in,” I echo. 

We spend more time drinking than we do eating our food. The mood has lightened, and it feels like when we first knew each other. We talk about books and movies, our favorite authors and musicians. We laugh too loud and for too long. It’s not until we are waiting for the check that I notice his foot is resting against mine. 

“Oh God Oliver, you’re too drunk to drive,” I say as we stumble out of the restaurant. 

“I think you’re right,” he giggles.

“I live just a few blocks from here. You can stay in my guest bedroom,” I offer. 

“I gotta call Becs.” Oliver digs through his pocket, bringing out his phone. He’s staring at his phone, one eye closed, and can’t seem to keep his hand still long enough to hit the number. 

“Give me this,” I demand pulling the phone from his grip. 

We are clambering down the sidewalk when I finally hit the call button to  **_Becs_ ** . I take a moment to admire how committed Oliver is to her nickname. 

“Oliver, where are you?” she asks, sounding half asleep. 

“Rebecca, hi,” I say before Oliver starts shouting. 

“BECS! M'drunk.”

“Shhhh,” I say to Oliver and turn my attention back to the phone. “Hi. It’s Elio. As you can tell Oliver is drunk.” I giggle. Oliver just told the whole neighborhood that, I’m sure she heard. 

“I can hear that,” she says. Amusement is evident in her tone. 

“I’m going to put Oliver to bed in my guest room. Hey, does he throw up when he’s drunk? I just got the carpets cleaned.”

“Oh my god, you two are a mess. Elio, please get yourselves home safe. Have Oliver call me in the morning. He won’t throw up, but you have to force him to drink water. It’s probably been a year since he’s been drunk. He’s going to have one hell of a hangover.”

“Thanks. I’ll take good care of him.” 

She chuckles, “I’m sure you will. Goodnight, Elio.” 

“Night.” 

Oliver wraps his arm around me and starts singing a song I’ve never heard in a horrific Italian accent. We stagger into my apartment building, and the doorman gives us an annoyed look. I poke Oliver in the ribs, “Ssshhh. You’ll get me evicted.” 

“Thass okay. You’cnn come live with me. Mah big ol’ empty house.” 

Oliver is drunker than I thought. He has no idea what he is talking about, and I doubt that he will remember inviting me to come live with him and his family in the morning. 

We take the elevator up and finally fall through my front door or my apartment, laughing at nothing. It reminds me of the night in Rome when we laughed for hours until we were calm enough to make love. The thought sobers me. 

“Rebecca insisted you drink water. Kitchen’s right through there. I’ll make up your bed.” 

Oliver follows my instruction without hesitation, and when I join him in the kitchen after turning down his bed, he's guzzling a second glass of water.  

“Thank you,” he says. “I haven’t had this much fun in a very long time.” 

I simply smile. “Neither have I.” 

I give Oliver a quick tour of the apartment, setting out a spare toothbrush in the bathroom. 

“That’s my room there if you need anything let me know. Please don’t puke  on my carpet.” 

He gives me a playful shove before locking himself in the bathroom. 

“Good night, Oliver,” I whisper to the closed door.


	6. Chapter 6

I can’t sleep. Oliver is just one room over. One room over and he’s drunk. A drunk Oliver is a profoundly affectionate Oliver. 

I try to suppress the memories of nights like this so many years ago. Nights when only a door separated us. When I would sneak into his room — our room — so we could make love until the sun came up. 

The best I can do now is lay in bed pray my erection will go away. I think about masturbating. I want to rub myself slowly and right before I come, moan his name just loud enough for him to hear me, but quiet enough to question if it was real or not. I want to make him think maybe he’s imagined it. 

Instead, I decided on getting up for a glass of water. My room feels claustrophobic, and I need an escape. I’m surprised to find Oliver sitting on the couch with a throw blanket wrapped around him. His eyes are red, and I can’t tell if they are bloodshot from the drinking, or if he’s been crying. 

“Oliver?” I ask tentatively.

His head jerks to me as if he didn’t hear me walk into the room. “Oh, hey. I hope I didn’t wake you.” 

“Uh, no. I can’t sleep,” I say, making my way into the kitchen. 

“Me neither,” he responds. He seems somber and it feels like that _ something _ from our last dinner is back. The same  _ something _ I was determined to learn about. 

“Is everything okay?” I plant myself on the other end of the couch, keeping as much distance between us as possible. 

He gives a half smile and nods. This is not something I know about Oliver. Does he open up about his feelings or does he hide them? I learned a lot in two weeks, but I didn’t learn everything. 

“Will you play for me, Elio? I mean, if you can without disturbing the neighbors?” He sounds so vulnerable and looks so open that I couldn’t imagine refusing. 

“I’ll play for you, Oliver.” I stand to make my way to the piano when he grabs my wrist. 

“Will you play your piece you were practicing at the school?” 

He can’t be asking me this, not now. I’ve never been able to refuse him, not even when he told me to drop my trunks after my morning of regret. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “I can see you don’t want to.” 

Standing in the middle of my living room, I debate if I should play the song for him. If I play it now, I won’t have to worry about making a fool of myself at the concert. But how will he react? Will he run out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him? Will he look at me with pity, and say he’s sorry for the time we lost, but he’s happy. I wonder if I should preface the song with an introduction or just play. I’m still slightly drunk, and that makes it even harder to say no. 

“I’ll play.” 

Sitting down at my bench, I flex my wrists and fingers. I don’t understand why I’ve agreed to this, but I find my resolve and mindlessly stroke a few keys to warm up. It’s just my way of delaying for a moment longer. 

He walks over to my right side, leaning against the piano, blanket still clutched around his shoulders. I can just see him out of my periphery. I’ve played this song so many times. I don’t even have to think to perform. It’s all muscle memory at this point. I want to give my best performance, so I focus on singing instead of Oliver’s reaction. I take a deep breath and begin.

 

_ I heard, that you're settled down _

_ That you found a girl and you're, married now _

_ I heard, that your dreams came true _

_ I guess she gave you things _

_ I didn't give to you _

 

_ Old friend, why are you so shy _

_ Ain't like you to hold back _

_ Or hide from the light _

 

_ I hate to turn up out of the blue uninvited but I _

_ Couldn't stay away I couldn't fight it _

_ I had hoped you'd see my face _

_ And that you be reminded that for me it isn't over _

 

_ Never mind I'll find someone like you _

_ I wish nothing but the best _

_ For you too, don't forget me _

_ I beg, I'll remember you said _

_ Sometimes it lasts in love _

_ But sometimes it hurts instead _

_ Sometimes it lasts in love _

_ But sometimes it hurts instead yeah _

 

_ You know how the time flies _

_ Only yesterday it was the time of our lives _

_ We were born and raised _

_ In a summer haze bound by the surprise _

_ Of our glory days _

 

_ I hate to turn up out of the blue uninvited but I _

_ Couldn't stay away I couldn't fight it _

_ I hoped you'd see my face _

_ And that you'd be reminded that for me it isn't over _

 

_ Never mind I'll find someone like you _

_ I wish nothing but the best for you too _

_ Don't forget me I beg, I'll remember you said _

_ Sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead _

 

_ Nothing compares no worries or cares _

_ Regrets and mistakes their memories made _

_ Who would have known how bittersweet _

_ This would taste _

 

_ Never mind I'll find someone like you _

_ I wish nothing but the best for you _

_ Don't forget me I beg, I'll remember you said _

_ Sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead _

 

_ Never mind I'll find someone like you _

_ I wish nothing but the best for you too _

_ Don't forget me I beg, I'll remember you said _

_ Sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead _

_ Sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead _

 

I play the final chord as a tear spills over, running down my cheek. I stare at the keys because I can’t bring myself to look at him. I don’t want to see the disgust or pity playing across his face.  I’m not sure why I didn’t refuse to play. I could have said the song was only to be heard in a concert hall, or just that I didn’t feel like it. I could — should — have said no. He’s in my home, likely still drunk, but I’ve just confessed I never stopped loving him. 

I look inside myself, trying to find the same courage I had at the Piave War Memorial. I’m not sure it’s courage I find, but impatience. I wanted closure, to move on. If I look up and see disgust, I’ll at least know, and it will be over. 

When I raise my eyes, I’m shocked to see him standing closer. His expression is unreadable. I make to rise from my seat, but before I’m fully upright, he’s rushing towards me. He lets go of the blanket, and it pools on the floor. There’s a fire in his eyes that makes me scared he’s going to hit me. 

I’m still trying to stand when he grabs me, wrapping both arms around my waist, pulling me to my feet. In his haste to get to me, we’ve knocked over the bench. Oliver brings me closer to him leaning into me. He kisses me with such force, it pushes me back against the keys. A clamorous sound fills the room, and nothing has ever turned me on more. With each move we make another sound escapes the instrument. I want him to fuck me right here. I want to hear the music of our lovemaking. 

Oliver must tire of the cacophony because he’s sliding his hands around my thighs and lifting me to settle around his waist. My legs instantly wrap around him. For all the times we kissed that summer, nothing was ever like this. Those were always playful, joyous, and carefree. Oliver is now kissing me like a man born of desperation. He’s kissing me like this is the last kiss he’ll ever have. 

Oliver walks us to the couch and sits down with me straddling his lap. When we were together back then, Oliver would check on me often, making sure I was okay. Checking to see if anything hurt or I was comfortable. This Oliver is demanding. Taking what he needs and damn the consequences. I know he would stop if I asked, and I should. Tell him we can’t do this. That he’s married and this will only hurt all of us. But Oliver's pulling my shirt over my head and kissing his way down my body as if he aches for this as much as I do. As though he’s been dreaming of this moment for the last fifteen years, just as I have. I should tell him to stop, but I can’t. 

I trail my fingers up his sides, inching his shirt up as I go. We only break apart long enough to pull the garment over his head. I press my bare chest against his, scared of breaking the spell. Oliver stands without warning, causing my arm to flail and my ankles to lock around his ass. He pulls back to look at me, chuckling. I worry this will be the end of it. He will realize what he’s doing and run out of here, never to see me again. I worry we won’t stop and we will both hate ourselves in the morning. 

Oliver, as always, is more sure of himself. He leans in slowly, planting a chaste kiss on my mouth. The pace slows, the urgency seems to have left us. Almost as though he’s decided if he’s going to do this, he’s going to make it worth the regret. 

Oliver walks us to my room as he brushes his lips across my entire face. The door is slightly ajar, and he kicks it further open as we make our way towards the bed. I feel a thrill at leaving the door open. I get the Oliver that doesn’t have to lock the bedroom door to have sex. Even if it’s only for one night, I am the one giving him that freedom. 

He drops me on the bed, kissing right above the waist of my sweatpants. Making his way across my stomach, nibbling and sucking along the way. I sink my hands into his hair and pull him back towards my mouth. I’m hungry for his kiss. I want him to fuck me, but I don’t want his lips to leave mine. 

We don’t say a word as we undress each other. I go as slow as I can, given how needy I am. I want to savor every part of him, memorize his every curve. It seems as if he’s doing the same to me. Stealing moment just to look me over. 

It feels like we have been at it for over an hour by the time he reaches for the lube. I’m panting, and my skin is covered with a thin layer of sweat. Oliver brushes away a damp curl from my forehead. He holds my gaze for just a moment before coating his fingers in lubricant. 

It’s been so long since I’ve had sex this way, and I wince at the initial intrusion. Oliver scoots down the bed and takes my cock in his mouth. I cry out with a desperate moan, thinking this can’t be real. Oliver is slowly working me open while bobbing up and down on my cock. It’s better than any fantasy I’ve had about being with him since the day he left Rome. 

I want to tell him that I’m ready. That I can’t possibly wait any longer, but my throat is dry, and I can’t find my voice. But because Oliver knows me, even now, as well as I know myself, he slowly draws his fingers out of me.

We’re back to kissing as he slowly pushes himself past my tight ring of muscle. I let out a long groan, sucking on his bottom lip. He spends several moments holding still, buried deep inside of me. I nod to let him know I’m ready and he begins gently rocking, slowly building his pace. 

I grab him by the back of the neck and pull him into a passionate kiss. My cock is trapped between our bodies with just enough friction to have me right on the edge. I hold out for as long as I can, but all too quickly I’m coming. “Elio,” I shout as the warmth spreads across my belly. 

At the sound of my name, Oliver increases his pace, snapping his hips forward erratically. After a handful of thrusts, he stills above me. “Fuck, Oliver. Oliver. Oliver,” he breathes as he collapses on top of me. 

My head's still spinning after the best orgasm I’ve had in probably ten years. My breathing is finally starting to slow when I notice the sniffles. Oliver is crying. I thought we would, at the very least, make it through the night before the regret set in. Oliver didn’t even make it five minutes. He doesn’t make to pull away, so I wrap my arms around him, carding my fingers through his hair. I expected him to pull away from my touch. To jump up and accuse me of seducing him. Instead, he positions himself so he’s laying half on my chest and snuggles even closer. We stay that way for several minutes when he turns and places a kiss on the first bit of skin he can find. “Goodnight, Oliver,” he mumbles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Thanks to my girls for helping me edit. EllenOfOz and TrenchCoatBaby!!! I love you so much. I couldn't do this without you.


	7. Oliver

“You got so drunk you couldn’t even drive home,” Rebecca jokes as I walk into the kitchen. 

“Becs,” I mumble. She’s smiling and laughing at my expense. 

“Are you sure you’re not still drunk? Last time we went out, and you had two martinis I thought I was going to have to carry you home.” 

“Becs,” I say with a little more force, but she doesn’t seem to notice. 

“I’m sure the poor thing had to drag you to bed. I told him to make sure you drank water.” She’s buzzing around the kitchen getting lunches ready for the boys. I should be helping, but I can’t bring myself to move. I sink down into a chair at the kitchen table. I hold my head in my hands. Rebecca talking about Elio dragging me to bed makes my eyes water again. I thought I was done crying after last night, but I keep going. 

“Rebecca!” 

She turns to me to see my eyes full of tears. “Oliver, what’s wrong?” 

I don’t know how to tell her. I can’t sit here in my home and tell my wife—soon to be ex-wife—that I slept with someone else. That I slept with the owner of my heart. 

When Elio played that song for me, I felt so much. I was elated that he still cared, shocked that he still thought of me, brokenhearted that he hurt for so long. More than any other emotion, I was jealous. I couldn’t bear the thought of Elio finding someone new, someone like me. _ I _ was his. I have always been his, and there was no replacement for me. I needed to show him that there is no one else for him. 

Now, I am faced with the choices I made. Not only for what I did last night but every decision I’ve made since I left Elio. I’ve made hundreds of excuses. He was just a child. He would have changed and lost interest in me. You can’t stay with someone you met so young. My parents. Society. There are countless reasons that Elio and I couldn’t have worked back them. But how can we work now? I wanted a friendship with him. I wanted my wife to have her new job and be well on the way to being my ex. I wanted to show him how good I could be to him. He’s never going to trust me again. He showed me that this morning when he all but kicked me out. It reminded me so much of the first  _ morning after _ . So much regret in his eyes, only this time he didn’t try to soften the blow for my sake. He scrambled out from under my arms and said he was taking a shower, and he would call me later. It was a clear dismissal. I was crying before he even left the room. 

I’m crying again as Rebecca wraps her arms around me, pulling me into her soft stomach. 

“Oliver, you’re scaring me.” 

“I’m sorry,” I croak. 

“Hey, why don’t you go get in the shower. I’ll get the boys out the door, and we’ll talk, okay?” 

I don’t deserve her kindness but take it anyway. I nod with my face still pressed against her. I can’t bring myself to move. When I leave the warmth of her body, I may never feel it again. I’ve come to terms with her taking the job and leaving. I knew that would be the end of the marriage, but it always seemed like it was so far away. Now I’m facing the genuine possibility that I lost Elio and Rebecca in the span of twenty-four hours. 

I trudge up the stairs. Everything feels hollow. I feel like my heart should hurt. I want to feel remorse for sleeping with Elio, but I don’t. It was so powerful—beautiful and moving. It was the most emotion I’ve felt since I set foot back into New York.

The love I feel for my boys is not comparable to how I feel about Elio. It’s what I should have felt for their mother, and maybe it’s what she should have felt for me. I think she’s been just as lost as I have since we got engaged before Christmas. She’s never said or even shown it, but when you know something as grand as what Elio and I have, you notice when it’s missing. 

I’m out of the shower and sitting on our bed in my tracksuit. Not quite pajamas, but not real clothes either. I’m about to have a marriage ending conversation, I don’t want to be wearing my stuffy professor uniform. 

“The boys missed you at breakfast, and before they left. Will you make sure to be at dinner?” She closes the door behind her as she enters the room. 

“If I still live here by then,” I mutter. 

“What do you mean? If you still… Oliver, what happened last night?” 

I can’t hold back the tears. I have cried more in the past day than I have the entirety of Adam’s life. I’m sitting cross-legged on my side of the bed, picking at the hem of my pants. 

“You didn’t? Oliver, please tell me you didn’t,” Rebecca whispers. 

I owe it to her to tell her the truth, but it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. “I did.” My throat is dry, and the words are barely audible.

“I did,” I say louder. “Rebecca, I slept with Elio. I’m so sorry.” 

“Becs. It’s Becs,” she shouts. “You haven’t called me Rebecca since Sophomore year.” 

“Okay, Becs,  I’m sorry.” I turn to face her. She’s standing on her side of the bed, pacing its length. 

“Did you know you were going to sleep with him? Is that why you went to him instead of having him come to dinner as I suggested? Jesus. You couldn’t have waited a few fucking months. I was going to be gone. I didn’t even have to know.” She has one arm wrapped around her waist and her other pinching the bridge of her nose. 

“I didn’t know. I swear, Becs, I didn’t mean to do this.” I crawl across the bed to kneel in front of her. 

She yells, hitting all the notes of a woman scorned. How could I do this to her? Why did I do this to her? Why couldn’t I wait—and that’s the one that gets me. I could have waited. I could have told Elio it was a beautiful song and how much it meant to me, but I needed to be single first. I could have asked him to wait for me. If he wanted this, really wanted this, he would have waited just a few more months. 

But what bothers me more is that Rebecca seems more focused on my timing than the act itself. 

“Did you ever love me?” she asks. 

We are both sitting on the bed, leaning against the headboard. It feels like we are at an impasse. I’ve been sincere up until this point, so I finally say what I’ve wanted to say for months, maybe even years.  

“Yes, of course, I did. I do. I love you, Becs. But you can’t deny that you and I don’t love each other the way a married couple should.”

“So what, that excuses it?” She draws her knees up to her chest, hugging them tightly. 

“No, it doesn’t. I did a shitty thing that I don’t expect you to forgive me.” She hasn’t replied, so I forge ahead. “Did you ever love me?” 

She doesn’t say anything for several long moments. Her silence is more telling than anything she’s about to say as she draws in a breath, “I did, but I think I always knew. I knew that you were not you. At least, not the you before your trip to Italy. Before you ever told me, I figured you fell in love under the Tuscan sun.” 

I laugh. She has always joked that it was the  _ Tuscan Sun  _ that made me have my  _ fling  _ with Elio. I always reminded her that I didn’t go to Tuscany, but never corrected that what I had was so much more than a fling. 

Rebecca continues, “I thought for a long time that maybe it was another woman you couldn’t get out of your head. But I was there and our parents...We just made sense and it worked. We were happy. And when I learned that your summer romance was with a—” She falters, “A young man. I assumed maybe you just grew up over there. I never imagined that you loved a boy. Then we got engaged and our parents planned our wedding and...you weren’t the only one that lost things because this was easy.” 

Her calling Elio a boy hurts worse than her admitting what I already suspected. We both had done nothing more than settle. Up until last night, I was a good husband, and she has always been a good wife. People strive and struggle to have what Rebecca and I have had. It wasn’t a lie. We loved each other and our kids. I loved every soccer game as much as she loved every spelling bee. But, for the two of us, it finally wasn’t enough. 

“I wanted to travel. I wanted to see the world. I was so jealous of your internship with Professor Pearlman.” She scoots closer to me, pushing up underneath my arm like a puppy. I hold her, waiting for her to finish. 

“I’m still mad at you. I’m hurt and betrayed. I was going to file for separation next week. So why does this hurt so bad?”

“I asked myself the same thing. I’m sorry, Becs. I should have waited. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Running my fingers through her hair, I shuffle down the bed, so she’s laying on my chest. It’s still so comforting it makes me want to cry. I wanted an amicable divorce. To be able to call her with good news, her to call me when she met someone. I wanted to tell her months and months from now about my reconciliation with Elio. Now I don’t know if we’ll even talk about more than the boys’ schedule.

“Because, Oliver, you’re in love. And love makes you do stupid shit.” 

We stay that way until we both drift off to sleep. I want to call Elio, but imagine he’s not interested in hearing from me yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading so far. I have three more chapters planned out. Sometimes it doesn't work out and I write more or less, but I have three outlined. Idk how long they will be. Thaks so much for reading my story. I hope I made you laugh at the tracksuit easter egg.


	8. Elio

I stand in my room alone, staring at the bed Oliver just left. I didn’t expect him to leave so easily, though I’m not surprised. He has a wife and children to get home to, after all. Another wave of nausea washes over me. I barely make it to the toilet before I retch. I can’t decide if I’m suffering from a hangover or a broken heart.

My mind drifts back to the morning after our first night together. I had felt a cloud of self-loathing and remorse. Only then, I regretted the things I’d let him do to me. Now I detest myself. I should have stopped him. I should have declined to play for him. I should never have written the song for him in the first place. And if I am going back and righting all my wrongs, I probably never should have slept with him in the first place. I was just a kid. I didn’t know what I wanted.

I feel dizzy and lay against the tile on the bathroom floor. I know I'm being overdramatic, and catastrophizing everything. My only real regret is that Oliver has a wife he needed to get back to.

I rushed him off so quickly because I couldn’t stand the thought of him looking at me this morning. Giving me a look that says, _thanks for the fuck, I’ll call ya’ some time. Maybe when the wife’s away._ I think what I feared most though, was seeing that Oliver wanted to be with me, but had to go home to her.

I finally give in and cry. I thought I saw Oliver’s eyes filled with tears as I retreated to the bathroom earlier, but I can’t be sure. Is he as unhappy as I am right now? Or is he holding his wife at this moment, planning a nice family dinner? I want to call him and ask him. I want to ask him why he kissed me, or if he even liked the song. He must have liked it if he reacted the way he did. I feel so conflicted that I want to scream. How can a person experience so much joy, and such pain about the same event?

When I finally get up from the bathroom floor, I make my way into the kitchen. I want to eat dry toast and take one of my prescribed sleeping pills. I only seem to need them when I’m on the road, but right now I need an escape. It’s not a healthy outlet, but it’s the only way I will get any rest.

I dream that I am drowning in the sea outside the villa. Oliver is running towards me, calling out my name. His voice suddenly turns into a shrill ringing, and I bolt awake, sitting straight up in bed. It’s nine-thirty at night, and I see flashing on my bedside table. It takes me a moment to come back to myself as I realize that it wasn’t Oliver’s voice that was ringing, it was my phone. I dread looking at the screen. What if he called? What if he didn’t?

My curiosity gets the best of me as I reach for the phone with shaking hands.

_2 Missed Calls: Oliver_

_Incoming message: Elio? Are you okay?_

_Am I okay?_ How can I answer that? No, I’m not okay. You stole my heart when you left me in Italy fifteen years ago, and just when I thought I had grown a new, albeit weaker, heart, you took that too. What did you do with it, Oliver? Did you tuck it neatly next to yours, or did you throw it out the window the second you got in your car?

I set the phone back in its spot on the table and drift off to sleep, not caring that I wasted the entire day.

It’s morning before I wake and if I dreamed, I don’t remember. It’s five a.m. when I lace up my sneakers. It’s earlier than I am used to running, but after getting so much sleep the day before, I’m wide awake. I hope the exercise will clear my mind, but it only leads to thoughts of Oliver. I should call him. Or at least send him a quick text message. I have not checked my email, but I assume there will be an email as well. As disgusted as I am with myself, I still don’t want to push him away.  I know he’s as much to blame for what happened as I am, but I can’t help carrying the burden of our transgressions. I set my resolve to call him, and spend the rest of my run going over my setlist for the concert the following week.

By the time I get home, I am starving. The toast was the only thing I ate yesterday, so I make myself a quick bowl of oatmeal. I recheck my phone, but there are no messages from Oliver. I imagine he is in class all day, so I have some time to plan what I will say to him. I fire up my laptop and avoid my email for a long as possible. The oatmeal is long gone, and the bowl set aside when I open my email. As I expected, there is an email from Oliver.

 _To:_ [ _PianoMan70@hotmail.com_ ](mailto:PianoMan70@hotmail.com)

_From:_ [ _OliverTheGreat@yahoo.com_ ](mailto:OliverTheGreat@yahoo.com)

_Subject: We good?_

_Elio,_

_We didn’t get a chance to talk yesterday. I’ve tried to contact you, but have not heard from you. I know it may be uncomfortable, but can we talk about what happened? I have so many questions. I can’t stand the silence. I need to speak to you._

_-Oliver_

He remembered. I can’t believe he remembered my message. Of course, I remembered. I painstakingly drafted that simple note for more than an hour, but I never imagined he thought about it past that night.

 _To:_ [ _OliverTheGreat@yahoo.com_ ](mailto:OliverTheGreat@yahoo.com)

_From:_ [ _PianoMan70@hotmail.com_ ](mailto:PianoMan70@hotmail.com)

_Subject: RE: We good?_

_Oliver,_

_We are good! I’m sorry for how I acted. I have a very busy week, so I’m not sure if I will have time to meet for the lunch we discussed. I will let you know, okay? We will talk soon._

_Oh, and Grow Up, I’ll see you at the concert._

_Elio._

It’s not exactly a lie. I will be busy with the concert. I could make time to see him, but I won’t. It’s one thing to imagine a world where Oliver and I could be together. To fantasize about what it would feel like having him in my bed once again. Now, I know what it feels like to have him there. I can’t just sit across from him drinking wine and eating pasta when I know what it is to have this Oliver inside me. Closure was not what I got. It was my original mission, but what I ended up with was another decade of heartache.

***

I’m back at the university a few days later, doing my best to avoid running into Oliver. Unless he’s been talking to Dr. Claire, I doubt he knows I’m here. But I keep a low profile all the same.

My concert isn’t something I’m getting paid for. I’m sure if I had given my manager enough time, we could have set something up, but I didn’t want to be paid to perform for one person. So I’m left to handle almost everything on my own. I don’t mind _—_ preparing for a show has always occupied my thoughts when I’m just days away. I’ve asked that the price of admission be a donation to a local organization that helps fund the arts programs in public schools.

It’s the day before the show when my luck runs out. It’s late, and the sun is setting as I see him standing against my car. It’s not a cold day, but it isn’t exactly warm, and I wonder how long he’s been waiting. I don’t know his schedule well enough to know what time his last class ended.

I hike my messenger bag higher up on my shoulder and resolve myself to this confrontation. But the closer I get, the more I can make out his features. He looks happy, no, elated. Before I realize what’s happening, I’m being pulled against his chest in a warm, tight embrace. I’m so shocked, I don’t raise my arms to wrap around him. He quickly notices my discomfort and pulls away.

“I’m sorry. I should have asked,” he mumbles, looking down as though I reprimanded him.

“No. No, it’s okay. I just wasn’t expecting it,” I reply. I’m debating if I should go in for a second attempt at the hug, but decide against it.

“I know you probably want to get home. Or to the room where you're staying. But I wanted to wish you luck in person. I’ll be there, front row.” He pushes off my car and begins to walk away, but quickly turns to add, “Elio? Will you play the song, please?”

It’s such an earnest question as if Oliver doesn’t know the power he has over me, and my inability to say no to him. I want to say, _Of course, I’ll play for you Oliver. This whole concert is for you. I’ll play anything you want me to._

“I’ll play the song,” is all I manage to get out. Based on his smile, it’s good enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. These last two chapters were a little on the short side, but Elio didn't do anything interesting and I have no clue how one prepares for a concert. I have it down that I want 10 chapters, but an 11th chapter is already creeping up, so maybe 10 and an epilogue ;)
> 
> I'm on tumblr if you want to hang out, but I mostly post Supernatural stuff on there. [WaywardAF67](https://waywardaf67.tumblr.com/%20WaywardAF67)


	9. Elio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I was in Nashville for a supernatural convention :) I hope it was worth the wait.

I’m in my apartment, alone. The nerves of the next day's performance has me anxious. The sound check is done, the piano tuned and ready, my tux hanging in the dressing room. There is nothing more I can do to prepare. The first few years I performed live, I would get nervous, worry about missing a note or falling off-key, but over time I gained confidence. Playing with world-renowned orchestras can give you a bit of an ego. But I have forgotten all that courage as I pace my living room, chewing on my thumbnail. 

For tomorrow’s concert, I am playing all my favorite pieces. The ones that remind me most of Oliver. Songs dedicated to lovers or written to mend a broken heart. I am going to play him all the works that kept him in my heart, even when he wasn’t in my mind. 

The one thing that has me most puzzled is why he wants me to play the song again. I planned on omitting it. There’s not a program with my setlist, so it would have been easy enough to sneak in something other than my original work. As I set up earlier today, with the help of a few students to run the sound check, I got the microphone ready. I wanted to leave off the song, but I didn’t want to remove the option of playing it altogether. He had asked me to play it, and I said I would. But there's a part of me that never wants to hear that song again. I want to preserve the memory. 

I sit down at the piano in my living room to practice one more time, but my heart clenches. Just a few days ago my fantasy came true. I got to have Oliver again. I once foolishly believed that if I slept with him only one time, I would get it out of my system. I wish that were possible. I wish that I could live on the memories alone. But that’s where the problem lies. The memories are tainted. Soiled by the worry, fear, and doubt. Even my piano feels compromised. This used to be a place of respite for me; now it’s just one more reminder that I can’t have Oliver. I will never have Oliver. 

For a brief moment, I wonder if Oliver is playing a joke on me. His smile was so bright this afternoon, it's hard to believe it wasn't genuine. But I have no idea why he asked me to play the song again. He had told me during dinner that he was bringing Rebecca to the performance. She knows about our history, so why would she want to hear my pathetic tale of holding on to my love for her husband? Are they going to sit and laugh at me? My heart sinks at the possibility. Oliver is not a cruel man, I can’t imagine him doing something like that, but a week ago, I also couldn’t have believed he would cheat on his wife. 

I can’t take another sleeping pill because they make me groggy, but I decide a glass or two of wine might help. I haven’t had dinner, so I pull out leftovers and pour myself a large glass of wine as I wait for the food to heat up. I can’t help but imagine how dull my life is compared to Oliver’s. He’s always on the go, busy with sports, and lessons of all kinds. Dates with his wife and quality time with his kids. I imagine he never has time to feel lonely. 

As I sit at my small, two-person kitchen table, I try to remember the moments when I  _ haven’t _ felt lonely. Oliver and I have lived such different lives.

I torture myself further and wonder if he’s ever been lonely lying in Rebecca’s arms. I let myself indulge in the fantasy of Oliver and I living together. Maybe we adopted kids, or perhaps we spent the last years traveling across the planet. It’s not something I’ve allowed myself to do since I heard of his wedding. I knew when he committed himself to her, that he was lost to me forever. Never had I imagined that I would turn the best man I knew into an adulterer. 

I don’t eat much, and by my third glass of Montepulciano, I’m comfortably sleepy. I decide it’s best if I cut myself off before I finish the whole bottle. My performance isn’t until tomorrow evening, but I don’t want to risk a hangover. 

 

***

 

When I wake in the morning, I’m surprised at how quickly I fell asleep. I had cleaned up the kitchen and went through my nightly routine. I must have drifted off the moment my head hit the pillow, because the next thing I knew, sunshine was beaming across my face. I grab my phone to check the time and notice a message from Oliver. 

_ Incoming Message: I know I said this yesterday, but good luck tonight. Or am I supposed to say break a leg? Let’s talk soon, okay? _

He seemed so happy when I spoke to him yesterday. I wish I could feel as light as him. Maybe he is hiding his guilt, or maybe he’s not feeling it. Perhaps this is something Oliver often does, though I doubt it. I won’t let myself hope that he is happy because he’s decided what we did wasn’t wrong. I can’t hope that he’s happy because there is a future for us. It seems as though he wants to stay friends and keep up the facade. I’m not sure I can do that. I thought I could, and I probably would have been able to, were it not for us sleeping together. 

_ Outgoing Message: Thank you, Oliver. I hope you enjoy the show. Let’s talk after. _

I make sure to keep the message vague. We will speak after the show. After I have gone home and cried myself to sleep. After I have given myself a few days to grieve the lost opportunity. I will invite him to a restaurant near my home, and I will tell him I can’t be just friends with him. 

I feel resolve in my decision. It’s not going to be easy. It’s going to be as painful as the day he left me in Rome, maybe more. But it’s what I need. I think I always held a small amount of hope that something would happen and we would end up together. I think I’ve finally let go of that dream, and while my heart aches at the loss, I also feel a sense of freedom. No more longing for a lover I can’t have. No longer will I deny loving him in the first place. It’s going to be the end of the longest chapter in my life, and I’m ready to face it and move on. 

The afternoon passes in a blur, and I don’t have as much time to prepare as I would have liked. I’ve gone through one last check, making sure sound and lighting are up to standard. I am slowly adding layers to my tux when there is a knock at my door. I freeze for a moment, thinking it’s Oliver. I’m wondering why he’s here as I slowly open the door to reveal Dr. Claire standing there, holding a bottle of champagne. 

“I don’t know about you,” she says as she walks past me, into my room. “But I need a drink before I go on stage.” 

I have never been one to drink before a performance, but I feel like I know this playlist well enough that one glass of champagne won’t affect my abilities. 

“Thanks. I’ll have a glass, but just one.” I say, sitting down next to her on the small couch in my dressing room. Calling it a couch is being generous—it’s more like an extended loveseat, and her closeness is reassuring. I like Dr. Claire, and hope we can keep in contact after the night is over. 

“One glass it is.” She pours a hefty serving into a tall flute. “You’re going to do fine, Elio. I’ve heard you play. I’ve seen your resume. This is small time compared to your normal audience. What has you so worked up?”

I take the glass from her and guzzle half before responding. “It’s a bit of a complicated story, but there is going to be someone in the audience I wanted to impress.” 

“‘Wanted to’?” Dr. Claire inquires. 

“Yes, ‘wanted to.’ I’m not sure it matters anymore. If they are impressed or not, I mean.” The champagne is good, and I want another glass, but don’t want to take the stage light-headed. Plenty of musicians play intoxicated, but I get sloppy. 

“Regardless, you’ll do just fine. And your someone? It probably matters to him more than you think.” She rises from the couch, making her way to the door. 

I want to deny that there is a  _ him _ . I want to tell her that she doesn’t know what she is talking about and has gotten everything all wrong, but the words are stuck in my throat. She pats my cheek softly and murmurs, “Do well,” before she walks out of the room. 

The time has come, and I’m sweating. I can’t believe this is finally the moment I have been preparing for. The student volunteers lead me from my dressing room to stage right. I wait in the wings, scanning the crowd when I see him. He’s wearing a dark blue suit, and his hair is combed back. He looks stunning, but nothing like the half-naked Oliver I remember laying by the pool. Next to him is a beautiful woman with blonde hair pulled up into some sort of twist. She his big blue eyes, and her green gown shows off her evenly tanned skin. My heart sinks to my stomach when she grabs his hand, throwing her head back in laughter. 

I steel myself as I walk on stage. The lights are so bright I can’t see Oliver where he is sitting. I take my seat and after a brief pause begin playing. My fingers work, and I do my best to clear my mind. I try to remember the calm feeling I got earlier when thinking this was my goodbye. Just a little over an hour and I will be done with Oliver for good.  

Song after song pours out of me. I often look over to where Oliver and Rebecca are sitting. Most of the time I can’t see them, but knowing they are there together pushes me to continue. Occasionally the lights shift, and I can see Oliver, watching me with rapt attention, a smile plastered on his face. 

I’ve reached the climax, and it’s time to bring the mood down. The next piece is something slow and melancholy. It sets the tone for the final song. I can feel the tension in the audience, and it’s just what I wanted. I get such a high from being able to control the mood with just a few simple notes. It gives me the confidence I need to play my final song. 

The lights dim, leaving me bathed in nothing but a low, warm glow. I take a steadying breath before I pull the microphone close to my mouth. Because there is hardly any light on stage, I’m able to look into the crowd and see Oliver. He’s leaning forward in his seat looking nervous. It does nothing to calm my own nerves. I don’t take my eyes off of him as I whisper, “Cor Cordium” into the microphone. 

 

_ E C# B A E E C# _

_ B A E E C# B A E E C# B A  _

_ E C# B A F# C# A  _

_ B A B F# A _

_ E F# F# F# B A B  _

_ E C# F# E E E D C# _

_ C# C# F# F# A F# _

_ E F# B A B B A B C# _

 

_ Never mind, I'll find someone like you _

_ I wish nothing but the best for you two _

_ Don't forget me, I beg _

_ I'll remember you said _

_ Sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead _

_ Sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead, yeah _

 

My heart is racing. I am not singing as well as I know I can, but it’s hard to sing past the lump in my throat. I wrote the lyrics, but they are a lie. I don’t wish happiness for Oliver. Not with her. I wanted to be strong, to show Oliver I was an adult that moved on from our summer fling. But I as look over to see his wife crying, I lose myself.

I can’t hold back any longer, and my voice breaks as I hit the note. Nothing has ever been more real in my life.  _ Sometimes it hurts instead _ . I never healed from my time with Oliver. I never moved on, and at that moment, I worry I never will.

I close the song and feel like I can’t breathe. My throat is so tight I wonder if it’s closed off. I can see my chest rising and falling, so I know I’m getting air, but I still feel like I’m going to faint from lack of oxygen. 

I stand and take a quick bow before quickly fleeing the stage. I imagine Oliver calling out after me, but that can’t be. The last image I got before running off stage was Rebecca wrapping her arms around him. 

I don’t have a clue who I have passed or what I’ve said, but before I know it, I’m back in my dressing room. I search for a paper bag because I’m sure I am hyperventilating. I tear the room apart, knowing there must be something to help. I pull out every drawer and rifle through, pushing aside all the contents until some spill out on the carpet. 

My heart is hammering so hard it sounds like someone is knocking on the door. My vision is going black around the edges when I feel soft hands grasp my face. “Elio, come on, sit down.” I don’t know who is standing in front of me, but she pulls me down to the ground, pushing my head between my knees. 

My breathing is still ragged, but I’m slowly coming back to myself when I feel gentle fingers running through my hair. I open my eyes long enough to see green pooled all around me. Instantly, I know who’s with me. 

“Elio, look at me,” Rebecca demands. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I sob. 

She gives me a few moments before asking softly, “Elio, was that song about Oliver?” 

Rebecca sounds so sincere it kills me to think about what I’ve done—what we’ve done—to her. I pull back, scrambling away from her touch.  

“Hey, focus. I need you to answer me. Did you write that song for Oliver?” She doesn’t move closer, but her muscles are tense like she’s ready to pounce on me. Shame courses through me as I answer her question with a single nod. 

“Oh, Elio. Sweetie.” This time she does move closer, and though I don’t deserve her comfort, I take it. 

“I’m sorry, Bec, uh, Rebecca. I’m so sorry,” I whisper. 

“No, honey. Don’t be. You can’t be sorry for loving Oliver they way I never could.” 

Confused, I stare at Rebecca, trying to comprehend what she’s just told me. 

“Elio, I know what happened with you guys that summer.” She has such a kind expression. I can’t bear to look at her. “And I know what happened the other night. He told me Elio. God, after hearing that song, I can’t blame him.” 

I feel like I’m having a nightmare, and I wonder when I’ll wake up. “He...what?”

“It’s okay. Look, I think you’re having a panic attack. Just take a few deep breaths, and I’ll explain everything.”

Just then I hear the door burst open and Oliver shouts “Elio!” I feel myself fall over, and suddenly the world goes black. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here is the thing about me. I have no idea where this story is going. I had plans, I knew where I wanted to go. I was getting there, but then Elio was like HEY HEY, look at me. I want another chapter all to myself. So I will say there are 2 more chapters. One from Elio's POV and an Epilogue, but honestly who the hell knows. That's my plan...

I’m nervous as I get ready. Rebecca is still coming to the show with me, and that makes my nerves worse. I told her everything about my night with Elio because she asked me to. So I talked about the song, about my jealousy of him finding someone like me, and the subsequent lovemaking.

We are in a strange place, Rebecca and I. There had been nothing to our marriage other than our children for years, and now that we are facing the end, emotions are running high. She understandably feels betrayed, but logically, she understands that my actions were not of malicious intent. She was quickly able to move on from her feelings of betrayal and accept what had happened. By midweek, she wanted to know everything about Elio. She wanted to make sure he would treat the kids well and would respect my position, in case I wasn’t ready to come out to my university.

Rebecca was asking me questions I never thought to ask himself. Of course, Elio would be great with the kids. They would love him. But what if they didn’t? What if they blamed Elio for our divorce? As far as I could tell, Rebecca and I never showed signs of distress in our marriage. What if Elio insisted I come out at school? While I’m not opposed to the idea, it’s my choice to make.

What’s worse is I’ve not asked myself the biggest question of all. What if Elio doesn’t want me? What if, as the song said, he was ready to find someone new? This could have been his one last attempt to _get Oliver out of my system._

Oddly, it had been Rebecca who calmed me. Elio still cared enough to write the song, and that gave me hope. We couldn’t jump right into a serious relationship, though part of me wanted to. I had to get divorced, let the kids adjust, find out who I was outside of being a husband and father. It isn't fair to ask Elio to wait, but I'm going to.

Rebecca was excited to hear the performance, and to meet Elio finally. She wanted to talk with him and get to know him. Rebecca was always going to be a part of my life, so it excited me that my wife—though soon to be ex—wanted to be friends with my, hopefully soon, lover.

She seems happier as of late than she has been in the past several years. She talks about her new job and the ideas she has for the department. She speaks of traveling, sometimes with the kids and sometimes alone. She confided in me the guilt she felt for wanting a life outside of being a mother, and in the same breath, cried because she didn’t want to leave the kids.

There is a closeness we have now that we have not had in a long time. And as I watch her do a final spin in the mirror, I want to cry. She is wearing a long green gown that comes just slightly off her shoulders, and she looks stunning. Her hair is swept up and her blue eyes sparkle. I feel like I have been stuck in limbo for the past fifteen years, missing Elio too much to love her as she deserved. I wonder if she noticed? Maybe she was too busy not loving me fully to see my shortcomings.

If I were able to choose the outcome of this, in two years, we would all be sitting at the villa in B. The boys playing in the pool, maybe finding their own summer love. Elio at my side, sitting directly across from Rebecca, laughing at her stories of the professors in her department. It's a wonderful dream, and just for a moment, I feel like it could be my reality.

“Ollie, we have to go if you still want the front row seat,” Rebecca says, running her hand across my back as she walks by.

I give my reflection one last glance. There are sunspots on my hands and a few on my face. My hair isn’t as full as it used to be, and I have crows feet, even when I'm not smiling. I’m feeling a bit insecure, and I hope Elio still finds me attractive.

  


***

 

“Stop fidgeting. You’re worse than Adam,” Rebecca chides.

“Sorry. I’m nervous,” I respond, leaning back in my chair.

I’m sitting so close to the stage, I’m sure I could see Elio’s pores once he comes out. I ’ve never been in this music hall and imagined there would be an orchestra pit. But instead, there ’s a scant fifteen feet from my chair to his bench.

“Why are you nervous?” she asks with genuine curiosity.  

_Because I’m scared he doesn’t want me. Because my entire future depends on his decision. Because you are sitting right next to me about to hear the love of my life profess his undying love for me._

I look her in the eye and see nothing but compassion. “I’m scared of so many things. I have no control over my life right now. You and Elio hold my happiness in your hands, and it’s all coming to a head right now.”

“Ollie,” Rebecca says, turning towards me.

“At least I still have my looks,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood. It works because she grabs my hand and throws her head back in laughter. Just then the lights dim and there is a chorus of applause.

Elio walks across the stage bathed in the fluorescent glow of the spotlight. They have the lights on stage brighter than I expected. I assume he can’t see, but I kiss my fingertips and point them toward him, on the off chance that he saw me sitting here. I wonder what he thinks  about me sitting next to my wife, who is a stunning beauty. Whatever he might think, he has to be wrong, because regardless if the last decade and a half of my life is resting to my left, I cannot take my eyes off him.

I recognize several of the songs. Some I heard in Italy, some I knew from before Elio. But all of them have an air of heartbreak. The performance is melancholy and feels like we are witnessing a tragedy. I am not sure if the rest of the audience feels that, or if it’s because I’m living out my own personal “what could have been.”

There is a palpable climax to the show, and the following song seems to be the most harrowing thus far. It feels as though Elio is taking us from the top, and slowly bringing us back down, preparing for the finale. As the song ends, there is a brief pause before the lights dim, and Elio is sitting under a single light with a yellow hue. He looks so small sitting in front of the large instrument. I watch him with rapt attention and my heart bursts when he whispers “Cor Cordium” into the microphone.

 _Heart of Hearts._ The postcard still sits in my office. The memory still sits in my heart. I can’t help the tears that spill down my cheeks. The melody is slow and soothing. I’ve only heard it once, but I feel like I know every last breath Elio is about to sing. The song is beautifully sorrowful. I close my eyes and let the music be the soundtrack for my memories. The rocks by the ocean, Heaven, the orchard, Le Danzing, our bed.

 

_Nothing compares no worries or cares_

_Regrets and mistakes their memories made_

_Who would have known how bittersweet_

_This would taste_

 

I can’t regret coming home and marrying Rebecca. I can’t regret the choices that have given me my children. But I do mourn for the life I could have had. In this moment I allow myself to be purely selfish and wish that I would have gotten on the first plane back to Italy. It was my plan for the first half of the trip. I would use the emergency credit card my dad made me keep in my wallet. I’d never used it, but getting back to Italy—back to Elio—was an emergency. But when I saw my parents standing there, my mother’s arm resting around Rebecca’s shoulder, I knew it was over. The greatest love I’d ever know was gone and what stood in front of me was a kind, smart, funny, caring, beautiful woman. I threw myself into the relationship with her only to forget Elio. I did everything different with her. She had even commented that I wasn’t the same as when I left for Italy, but nothing more was said after that. Not until I finally came clean years later.

The song is coming to a close, and I’ve only just managed to stop the flow of tears. I watch Elio closely, noticing the slight tremble in his shoulders. On the last line his voice breaks. I can see him struggling to play the last few notes. Plunking down on the keys less gracefully than the entire performance so far.

I look over to see Rebecca is crying too. I can’t image what we would look like were anyone paying attention to us in relation to Elio. The three of us holding back the sobs that will eventually wreck through our bodies.  

Elio quickly bows and rushes off stage. Without hesitation, I stand and call after him. Before I can rush off, Rebecca grabs my hand and holds me back. “Let me, Ollie. Let me tell him it’s okay. I want to be the one to tell him you’re his. You’ve always been his.” Rebecca slips out of her heels and rushes up on stage, quickly following the path Elio took.

I mull over her words for a moment. It makes sense. If Elio knows Rebecca approves of us it might make it easier for him. It might make him willing to wait, but I can’t let her do that. It’s my declaration to make, and I’d rather we do it together.

I scoop up her shoes and, just like Rebecca, I run across the stage in search for both of them. I’m pushing doors open and trying to find where his dressing room is when I hear Rebecca’s soft voice.

“And I know what happened the other night. He told me Elio. God, after hearing that song, I can’t blame him.”  

There is a quiet murmur that I can’t make out that I assume must be my Elio. As I push the door open I hear Rebecca saying something to him, but I’m too focused on his pale face to make out what she’s said.

“Elio!” I shout moving towards him, slower than I thought I was capable of. He slumps over and leans against Rebecca.

My eyes go wide and I drop to my knees, unable to speak. I can’t imagine the look on my face that prompts Rebecca to tell me that he’s only fainted because he was hyperventilating. It only took a few moments for him to come back around, eyes blinking open slowly.

“Oliver?” Elio’s throat sounds dry, and before I can get up to search for water Rebecca is handing me a glass.

“Here, drink this,” I say, shoving the glass into his hand. He takes a long gulp before setting the glass on the ground beside him.

I cup both hands around his face, running my fingers through the hair at his temples and ask if he’s alright.

“I don’t know,” he responds. “I’m confused.”

Rebecca, who moved to the side when I dropped next to Elio, sidles up to me.

“I’m so sorry. This is such a complicated situation, and I’ll explain everything. But the most important thing for you to know right now is that Rebecca and I are getting a divorce,” I explain.

A look of horror paints his face and I realize I wasn’t as clear as I should have been.

“I’m sorry. Oliver, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

Rebecca draws in a breath as if to speak, but looks to me instead. I should never have doubted that she was here for more than moral support. She wasn’t going to be the one to tell Elio that our life together was ending. That was for me to say. Though I’m regretting my choice of words.

“Elio, no. It’s not your fault. Our marriage has pretty much been over for awhile. The other night I shouldn’t have—” I look between Rebecca and Elio. No matter what I say, I’m going to hurt someone, so I decide to be as forthcoming as possible.

“I shouldn’t have slept with you the other night, Elio.” My speech is rushed because I don’t want him to feel more regret than he already does.

“I should have waited. I knew the marriage was over, but that didn’t give me the right. I hurt you and Rebecca, and if I could change the timeline I would. But I don’t regret being with you, Elio. Not for a second.”

“Elio, I’m going to give you and Oliver some time, but I just want to say that you didn’t cause our divorce. This was a long time coming.” Rebecca took Elio’s hand in hers. “I hope we can get to know one another soon. Maybe a lunch or something in the next few weeks?”

Elio stares at her with wide eyes and nods his approval.

“I’ll take the car home,” Rebecca says to me.

“Let me walk you out.”

I turn to Elio, “Just give me a second. I’ll be right back.” I imagine a second alone will do him good. He’s been given a lot of information in the  past ten minutes.

I stand with Rebecca, just on the other side of Elio’s dressing room. “Are we okay?”

“Yeah we are good. I have this small part of me telling me I need to be jealous. That I should be angry I just handed my husband off to someone else. But it’s only a small part. The rest of me is so happy that you have someone who loves you so deeply. Just, be careful, okay? Everything is moving so fast I don’t want you to—”

“Make the same mistakes we made?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Rebecca replies.

“It wasn’t a mistake, Becs. My time with you, the boys? I will never consider that a mistake.”

She wraps her arms around me and buries her face into my chest. “I’m so happy to hear that. I don’t think it was a mistake. We were happy. Just not as happy as we could have been.”

Rebecca tucks a stray hair behind her ear and looks at the ground. “I don’t want to be wondering if you are coming home, or what you’re doing. So just, um, can you just not come back tonight? I mean, even if you don’t stay with Elio. I just—I need to be alone.”

I’m scared for a moment that Rebecca is going to take the divorce harder than I initially thought, but then she looks at me and smiles. “I’ve not had a night alone to myself in probably five years.”

“Sure, I’ll keep away. I love you, Becs. I always will.”

She hikes up her dress so it doesn’t drag the ground, “I’ll always love you too. You know you’re still going to be my best friend, right?”

I laugh, “Best friends forever.”

I walk back into the room to see that Elio has made his way to the couch and has gotten a little more comfortable. He’s slipped his shoes off and his jacket is draped over the arm of the couch.

“I feel like I don’t understand anything right now,” he says without looking at me.

“I know. I should have told you, but until yesterday I was confused myself. Not about what I wanted, but how to get it.” I sit next to him, pulling my knee up on the couch so I can face him. He still doesn’t turn to look at me.

“Please just tell me what you want. I’m so tired, Oliver. I thought this was going to be my closure. I thought this was how I was going to move on from you. I wanted to stop loving you. Now you are sitting here while your wife is heading home, and I don’t know what that means. Your decision affects me too, Oliver. Just tell me what you want.” He sounds almost hysterical as he makes his demand.

“You, Elio. I want you. It’s going to be complicated and messy. It’s going to take time and patience. But I want to be with you. Not for one night, not for two weeks, but forever. But I can’t just jump into that right away. You understand that, right?”

Elio scoots closer and laces our fingers together. “You mean it? Forever?”

“I mean it with every ounce of my heart.” I bring our joined hands to my mouth and kiss his knuckles.

“I’ll wait. I’ve waited for fifteen years, what’s another few months.”

I smile so big my face hurts and lean forward, “Can I kiss you?” I expect him to say ‘yes please’ almost as if it were a game between us, but instead he tells me, “You can kiss me anytime you want to.”  So I do.


	11. Elio POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it. There is one more Chapter that is an epilogue, but it's just going to be a short look into their lives the following summer. Thank you so much for reading this. I know this update took longer than I would have liked and I am sorry to keep you hanging waiting for the whole point of the story.

My head is still spinning as Oliver walks me to my car. I have a floating sensation, and I feel like nothing is real. I must have dreamed that Oliver just told me his marriage was over. My subconscious must have made up that he wanted to be with me. I don’t deserve something so wonderful. But here he is, standing next to me as I load my things into my car. 

“Will you call me tomorrow?” Oliver asks. 

I nod. I feel like my voice is too weak to speak. Oliver must sense my turmoil because he wraps his hand around my neck and pulls my face against his chest. It’s a comforting spot for me. I burrowed into the fabric of his shirt the first night we made love and the day he left Rome. It’s the only thing grounding me. 

“Thank you, Elio. Thank you for giving me the time I need. It won’t be an easy few months, but I hope we can get through it together.” 

I finally find my ability to speak, “We can get through anything Oliver.” 

He kisses my temple before opening my car door. I slide in, never taking my eyes off of him. Oliver closes my door for me and blows me one last kiss before walking off. It takes me a few minutes to settle before I feel confident enough to drive. I had planned on staying at the hotel after the performance because I expected to drink a full bottle of champagne and wallow in sorrow. Now, I just can’t wait to be in my bed. The bed I’ve shared with Oliver, and hopefully soon, will again. 

It’s late by the time I get home and crawl into bed, but I can’t remember a time when I’ve been happier. Oliver thinks it’s going to be hard, but I think it’s going to be easier than the last half of my life. It was seventeen years before I met him and fifteen years since the six weeks we spend together. It’s strange that someone I knew for such a short amount of time changed the course of my life. 

As I lay in bed, I wonder who I would have become if I had never met Oliver. It’s not something I would have thought about before, but now that I know I have a future with him, I allow myself to feel the agony of our time apart. I conclude that I wouldn’t have been the same man. Whether I want to admit it or not, there were many decisions I made because of my time with Oliver. 

I drift off to sleep remembering our night in Rome when he pressed me hard up against the wall outside of the Santa Maria dell’ Anima. 

In the morning I feel a heavy sadness I can’t explain. It’s how I imagined I would feel on this day when I first planned the concert. At the time, I couldn’t have fathomed rekindling my love with Oliver. I thought that I would wake up, sad, lonely, but ready to move forward. Instead, I feel a clamp around my heart. 

I decided to mull it over by indulging in a large breakfast. I normally don’t eat much in the morning, but today I want soft boiled eggs, pancakes, and bacon. As I gather the ingredients, I go over everything that happened last night. I promised Oliver we could get through this transition period, and I meant it. But it seems like a promise that is going to be much harder to keep than I imagined. 

Oliver still gets to have his family. His wife that is supportive, and kids that will love him regardless, I am in sitting at my kitchen island alone, waiting for water to boil. 

I’ve worked myself into a proper melancholy by the time I have my meal piled onto my plate. I’ve decided to eat in the living room and clear out my TiVo. It’s been so long since I’ve had free time….I have six episode of  _ The West Wing _ to get caught up on. Just as I’ve settled in, I hear my phone chirping from my bedroom. I briefly consider ignoring it, but hope that it’s Oliver draws me to the stand next to my bed. 

_ Incoming message: You can say no if you want to, but Becs wants you to come over for dinner tonight. She wants the kids to meet you.  _

Before I can finish reading the first message another one pops up. 

_ Incoming message: Also, Hi! :) I really want you to come, but if it’s too weird, I understand.  _

My mood instantly shifts, and I realize what had me down all morning. I was worried Oliver would change his mind. Once he saw how great Rebecca was being, he would go back to loving her and forget him as he did so many years ago. 

_ Outgoing message: If you are both sure, I would love to meet your children.  _

I stare at my phone, willing Oliver to write back faster. Text message is my least favorite form of communication, but it seems to be what Oliver prefers. 

_ Incoming message: Of course we are sure. Be here and 6:30. I know you will insist on bringing something. A simple bottle of wine is fine. Nothing fancy! _

I chuckle to myself, of course, Oliver knew I was going to buy a good bottle of wine. It felt like he was telling me that he still understood me. That he still  _ was _ me. 

I was able to keep myself busy for the rest of the afternoon. I tried hard not to think about the evening and the potential awkwardness. I finished watching my show, cleaned my apartment, and sat down at my piano. Now that the memory wasn’t choking me with grief and longing, I was able to enjoy Oliver pushing me back against the instrument. I stroked the keyboard lovingly, hoping to one day have a repeat performance. The piano was expensive, but I have never experienced anything as sensual as the clamoring sound of my bare ass being pressed into the keys. 

Choosing a wine is what finally breaks me. I’ve spent the day wondering what to get, but as I stand in the store, the weight of everything gets to me. In the middle of the aisle, tears well up in my eyes. I feel like a fool, like a child looking to impress his parent's dinner guest and the thought of choosing the wrong wine sends me into hysterics. It’s troubling to think that scenario isn’t far off from what I’m feeling. The wine isn’t going to keep Oliver from changing his mind, and it will certainly not make his kids accept me. 

It takes me twenty-five minutes, but I finally decide on the wine. I took Oliver’s advice and didn’t go for the nicest bottle they had in the store, but it’s better than I would have gotten were it just Oliver and me having dinner. The entire drive to his house I imagine what life would be like with him, maybe I would buy the nice wine for every meal because every meal with Oliver would be worth celebrating. 

Standing outside of Oliver’s home makes me feel insecure. He’s got the all-American dream life, and he’s giving that up. I’m not foolish enough to believe it’s only for me, but I know I played a small part. If only in the timing. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to leave this life. The suburban lifestyle, the big house, two kids and an honest to God white picket fence. 

I am still working up the courage to knock when the door flies open and Rebecca greets me warmly. “Elio, hi. Please, come in.” She steps aside and sweeps her hand across the room. They live in a beautiful cap-cod decorated in pale blues and beige. It’s simple but stylish. I imagine that was all Rebecca’s doing.

“Oliver is picking up the boys from practice, so it’s just us for a little while. I hope it’s not too awkward,” Rebecca says scrunching up her nose. 

I imagine that it should be awkward, that I should feel uncomfortable around her, but she’s so warm and inviting that I instantly feel like I’m home. It’s not hard to see how Oliver threw himself into their relationship after returning from Italy. 

“I’m okay if you are,” I reply, rather lamely.

“In that case, grab an apron. These apples still need to be peeled. Oliver loves my grandmother’s apple pie recipe; I think you should learn it. You can get Oliver to do anything for you with the promise of apple pie.” Rebecca hands me a bag of green apples and a paring knife. 

“You’re going to give me your grandmother's recipe? Rebecca, I--” 

She laughs out loud, throwing her head back as she did at the concert. “She got it from a Kraft recipe book. It’s nothing special. But Oliver doesn’t know that. He never asked, I never told.” She gives me a mysterious look. I instantly love her. 

We make conversation about her new job, the tone light and carefree. I worry that this is all too easy when she finally broaches the topic I’ve been hoping to avoid. 

“I’m sure this is weird for you. It’s kind of weird for me. Seeing you here, in our house. But Elio, I want you to know that this wasn’t your fault. Ollie and I, we haven’t been in love in a long time.” She takes a seat next to me at the island where I’ve been mixing the spices for the pie. 

“I don’t think we were in love when we got married, and sometime after Adam came, things just clicked. I think we did fall in love. Or we both just adored Adam so much, that it spilled over on to each other. Either way, it was good.” 

She pauses,  staring off out the kitchen window, and I hesitantly ask, “What happened?” 

“I don’t really know.” She gives a rueful smile before standing and going back to prep work. “The boys got older, and we settled. I have never been unhappy in my life with Oliver, but I don’t think he and I reached our full potential of happiness.” She gives me a soft look. 

“I can’t imagine how that must feel for you, Elio. All this time still thinking about him, wanting to be with him, but he was stuck here with me. Neither of us as happy as we could have been.” 

I’m brutally honest when I say, “I can’t imagine now being happy with him.” I feel ashamed instantly. I don’t want her to think I’m accusing her of anything. 

“No, I imagine you can’t. Just wait until you smell his feet after he goes running. Or leaves his dirty underwear next to the hamper.” 

She must notice the way my face drops because she comes closer, leaning across the island. “What’s wrong?” 

“I just don’t know if that’s what we will have. We haven’t even talked about it. I don’t live here. I don’t know if I’ll have to move. I don’t even know when we can actually be together. Or if we will even be together.” I take a breath and remember myself. “I’m sorry, you are the last person who wants to hear about my insecurities.” 

Rebecca wipes her hands on her apron and walks around the island, reaching out to hug me. “Oh, sweetie. It’s okay. I am happy to ease your fears. Who better than his wife.” My head pops up, I’m sure my look is incredulous. “Sorry, it’s too soon to be funny. Look, Elio, I know he gave you the ‘let’s wait’ speech. He wants to do right by you, and he wants to be in a good place before committing to you. But it’s not going to take as long as you think. He’s crazy about you.” 

I lay my head back down on her shoulder and hug her tightly. I hope she’s right. I hope he wants me as much as I want him. I’m startled away from her when the front door bursts open, and a tall boy comes running into the kitchen. 

“Mom! Mom! Alex hit Michael in the face with a soccer ball, and I think he broke his nose. It was awesome. You should have seen him, Mom, he cried like a baby,” their oldest son Adam babbles. 

I sit on my stool trying to look unobtrusive. The ball of energy in front of me speaks to his mother without stopping or noticing me. 

“...and then Coach Winchester said that Alex should have told him Michael was being mean to him instead of kicking the soccer ball at his face.” 

Rebecca doesn’t have time to respond, as her youngest child sulks into the room. “I’m sorry, Mom.” Alex looks up and instantly notices me. “Who’s that?” he asks. 

Oliver walks in behind him with a bag slung over his shoulder. “That’s Elio, remember I told you about him?”

I blush, wondering what Oliver has told his children about me—about us—if he’s even mentioned how we knew each other. 

“I thought he would be old, like you,” Alex said, in that childish way that can’t be mistaken for an insult. 

“I’m not old, and Elio just has a baby face.” Oliver walks around his son and wraps me in a hug. “Hi. I’m glad you came,” he quickly whispers in my ear before pulling back. 

I remain quiet while the family bustles around the kitchen. The kids get sent upstairs to wash up before dinner, leaving the three of us alone in the kitchen. 

“I think I need a glass of wine,” Oliver says, rubbing his fingers across his brow. It’s good to see he’s as affected by the situation as I am. 

“I’ve got it,” Rebecca says, patting Oliver’s cheek. It’s not an intimate gesture, but it makes my heart ache all the same. How many times has she done that over the years? How many times has she been the one to comfort Oliver when he’s upset, or sick? 

“Go sit with Elio,” she demands. 

I can’t take my eyes off the hem of my sleeve as I absentmindedly pick at loose threads. Oliver places his large warm hand on my back and rubs small soothing circles. 

“You okay?” he asks. 

Finally, I look up and him and nod. I went from enjoying myself to feeling like an intruder. 

Rebecca sets two glasses of wine down on the island and clears her throat. “This is weird. Half of my mind is telling me I should be mad about this. But I’m not. Isn’t that weird? I should have paid more attention in my psych classes.” 

Oliver grins. “I don’t think they covered anything like this in your psych classes, Becs.”

“Yeah, probably not. So look, um,” Rebecca pauses running her hand through her hair. “I talked with the school, and they have a few places lined up for me to come look at. I wanted to take the boys with me so they can help me decide. It will be their home too. So uh, we need to tell them soon. The appointment is next weekend.” 

Oliver sighs as he walks around the island. “Yeah, okay. It’s going to suck.” 

Rebecca nods. “It’s going to suck big time.” 

We spend the rest of the night talking to—and about—the kids. Giving me a chance to learn about the boys. Alex explains that he didn’t mean to give Michael a bloody nose, that he just got so mad when he called Coach Winchester a homophobic slur. Alex didn’t want his coach to hear the nasty word and get his feelings hurt. I couldn’t help but worry if kids would do the same to them, should they ever find out his father likes men as well. It helps me understand why Oliver wants to take things slow. It’s clear that Alex doesn’t care either way, but Adam is quiet on the subject, and that worries me. When I see Oliver’s pinched expression, I know he’s having the same thoughts. 

After dinner and a slice of pie-—two for Oliver—he walks me out to my car. I’ve gone back to avoiding his gaze, opting to fiddle with the keys in my hand. 

“I’m glad you came Elio. We are in a strange situation, and I’m thankful you’re willing to try.” Oliver takes two large steps forward crowding me up against my car. “I’d kiss you right here if I could.” 

I long for him to do just that. “I wish we could.”

“We will soon. Because once I start kissing you, I’m not stopping. I’m going to keep you in bed for days just kissing you. Anywhere my lips can reach.” 

“Don’t tease me. This is hard enough,” I groan.

Oliver instantly sobers. I was going for a double entendre, but he is showing real concern. “I know it’s hard Elio. I promise, if you wait, I’ll make you the happiest man on earth. Or at the very least, spend my entire life trying.” 

That is such open honesty in his face that I feel all of my doubts slipping away. I want to assure him the way he’s done for me. 

“I’m going to wait, Oliver. I’ll wait as long as you need. But I might need you to remind me often what I’m waiting for.” 

A devilish grin creeps across Oliver’s lips. “Becs and the boys will be out of town next weekend. Let’s have dinner at your place, and I’ll show you.” 

I am unsure if he means sex or just companionship, but I’m happy with either. “I’ll cook you Mafalda’s bolognese.” 

Oliver hums appreciatively, and I’m not sure if it’s for me or my suggestion of entree. There seems to be a lot of confusion wrapped up in this conversation, but I leave happy either way.

 

***

 

On Monday Oliver emails me telling me how much he enjoyed having all of his family in one room. It warms my heart to think that I am included in the bunch. He assures that the boys like me and that he’s worried he might have to fight Rebecca for me. 

Tuesday I get a phone call from Rebecca. We talk for over an hour about ourselves. Keeping Oliver and the children out of the topic. Before hanging up, Rebecca says that it’s the first time she’s felt like more than a mom in over a decade. I’m happy to be the one to give that to her. I feel like this is the beginning of a very important relationship in my life. 

Wednesday and Thursday pass with little communication. Just a “goodnight” from Oliver and Rebecca. As I lay in bed Thursday, it’s a struggle to remind myself to be patient. I will see Oliver over the weekend. It still feels oddly like we are having an affair, even if Rebecca knows. I imagine that’s something I will struggle with for a long time. At least until Oliver is ready to tell the boys if he decides to tell them. I’ve decided I will give him whatever he needs. I won’t make demands that we be out. Though Oliver works at a university and would have less angry parents to deal with than if he were teaching grade school, he still might face serious backlash. That’s not something I will ask him to endure. 

Friday brings a few short text messages. Setting up the time for the following day and Oliver insisting that he bring the wine this time. I joke that I want the finest Italian wine he can find, and instantly regret it. I know he will find the best wine he can afford. I beg him not to, but I know it’s in vain. 

Saturday has finally arrived, and I’m standing in the middle of the farmers market trying to keep my composure. I need fresh herbs, tomatoes, eggs, and several other items. I never realized how much I took fresh ingredients for granted until moving to the States. Instead of running out to the garden to get Mafalda tomatoes for her sauce, I now have to wait for the weekend, get in my car, and drive ten miles out of town to find fresh produce. 

As I’m leaving I spot fresh peaches and laugh out loud, causing several people to look at me. I know that Oliver loves apple pie, but I wonder how he feels about peach. I buy several in hopes that he will enjoy his dessert. 

My nerves are frayed. I started the sauce as soon as I got back from the market. Mafalda would be proud that I allowed so much time for the sauce to simmer. The fresh pasta has been rolled out and cut into fettuccine. It just needs to boil, and dinner will be ready. My heart beats in rhythm with the knocking at the door. 

I dust my hands off on my apron, only then remembering I had it on. A hysterical laugh bubbles up from my throat as I pull it over my head. I rush to the door, only to stop before letting Oliver in. I take several deep breaths and greet him with a smile. 

“Hi, come on in.” I move back letting him enter. 

He hands me a bottle of wine and bends to kiss both of my cheeks. “Thanks for having me over. The house was so quiet with everyone gone. I felt like I was going crazy.” 

My shoulders tense at the mention of everyone being gone. I know logically it’s not my fault, but it’s still hard to believe that Rebecca’s world isn’t ending by losing Oliver. 

When Oliver was in Italy, my father taught him what wines paired best with each meal. What flavors enhance each other. His selection makes me happy; it’s precisely what my father would have chosen. I wish I could call him right now and tell him everything that has happened. I want him to see that Oliver and I finally have a chance. He once told me I was too smart not to see how special what we had was, and he was right. I’ve known this whole time. 

“So, ah, did you guys tell the kids?” I inquire. 

“God, Elio. It was awful. Alex cried asked a lot of questions. Adam just walked off. He’s so smart I feel like he might have known it was coming. He didn’t act surprised.” He’s standing next to me as I pour us each a glass of wine. I want to reach out and hold him, but I’m not sure of the rules. I don’t know what actions are allowed and which have to wait. 

“I’m so sorry. I imagine it was one of the hardest things you’ve ever done.”  

I put the pasta into the boiling water and pop the breadsticks in the oven. A classic American-Italian dinner. 

“It’s right up there with leaving you. But that seems to have worked out for me, so I imagine we will get through this.” He comes forward and wraps his arms around me. “Are we being selfish Elio? Are we putting our wants over the kids’ needs?”

“I’m not a parent Oliver. I don’t know. But I imagine you can’t give them all they need if you are unhappy. They will still be loved, and you will still be a family.” 

Oliver pulls back and rests his hand against my cheek. “With a new addition to the family.” 

Blushing, I duck my head. “I don’t know what to do here Oliver. I don’t mind waiting until you’re ready for, whatever, but I need to know what I can and can’t do.” I bring my head up to hold his gaze, trying to look braver than I feel. 

“I don’t know. I wish I could give you more, but I really don’t. When I’m with you, I just want to be with you. I can promise you there will be no relations between Becs and me.” He kisses me on the mouth slow and steady.  

“I can promise that eventually we will talk to the kids, and we will be together and open. Ah, assuming you’re okay with that.” He kisses my cheek up to my ear. I tip my head to the side giving him access to my neck, and hoping he takes the hint. 

“I just need to take this at the boy’s pace. Is that okay?” He finally starts kissing my neck, working his way down to my collarbone. My throat is dry, and I can’t respond so I nod. I would agree to anything at this moment, but it’s only fair to give the children time to adjust. I can wait if it means keeping Oliver’s family as happy as possible. 

I bring my hands to rest on his hips, lifting his t-shirt to feel skin on skin. I pull back, bringing my mouth to his. Oliver sucks on my bottom lip, scraping his teeth lightly over the tender flesh. I let out a growl and pull his body against mine. He’s much larger than I am but moves with ease pressing me back against the counter. 

There’s a loud hissing noise and Oliver springs away. “Shit, the pasta.” 

“Shit!” The foam is overflowing,  hissing and smoking every time it hits the burner. I pull on my oven mitts and remove the pot from the stove, setting it in the sink. I look at the clock and realized the pasta is salvageable, it’s just a little overcooked for my tastes. But Oliver never did like al dente. 

A wine glass appears next to my side. “Can we still eat it?” Oliver asks. 

“Yeah, just the way you like it. Overcooked and mushy.” I guzzle half my wine. 

After almost burning the kitchen down, we mostly keep our mouths to ourselves. We enjoy dinner. Oliver moans at his first bite, and I have to will away an instant hard-on. We clean up the kitchen, and I send Oliver to find something to watch as I dish up dessert. I’m pleased with how hard he laughs when he sees the peaches falling out of the sides of his slice of pie. 

We find something mindless to watch on TV and after only a handful of minutes, Oliver reaches his arm around me and pulls me closer. We drink the whole bottle of wine and watch trashy TV until the late hours of the morning. 

“Do you have to go?” I ask hesitantly.

Oliver’s eyes dance across my face. “I was hoping to stay?” 

I lean forward and kiss him, taking his hand as I lead us to the bedroom. There is a strong tension around us. We haven’t talked about sex. If it’s something we will wait for or if that’s just part of us being together when we’re with one another. I imagine there is a time to talk about that, but there is a comfort to the tension, almost an excitement. It reminds me of the build-up to our first night together. 

We undress down to our boxers silently and crawl into bed. I click off the light and darkness surrounds us. In the stillness of the night, I hear Oliver draw in a breath. “Can I hold you?” 

"Yes,” I answer without hesitation, scooting closer to him. I feel his warm arms wrap around me, and breath a sigh of relief. If we aren’t going to have sex, this is just as good. Being in his arms again. I feel excitement and a low thrum of arousal. Oliver is pressed up against me tight, and when he shifts, I feel that he too is aroused. 

Oliver whines and scoots back. “Sorry,” he says.

“It’s okay. I don’t mind,” I reply. 

“It’s just I haven't had you in my arms in so long. My body kind of reacts on its own.” He’s moved far enough away, that we aren’t touching, but I can still feel the heat coming off his body. 

“I really don’t mind,” I say, scooting back and pushing my ass into his pelvis. He lets out a harsh sigh and bucks his hips forward, grinding into me. 

“This isn’t taking it slow. I don’t want to confuse you.” He pulls me tighter, resting his nose in my hair. 

“We don’t have to if you don’t want, but I really want this, Oliver.” I make sure to hold still, even though my body is aching to press up against his. 

He kisses the top of my head, moving to my ear and making his way across my jaw. “We really shouldn’t.” Oliver's hand slides down my abdomen. 

I know he wants to keep going, but I need to let him make that decision, so I nod and do my best to relax. He pulls back from my neck and rests his head right behind mine on the same pillow. 

“It’s just, I’m still married,” Oliver huffs. 

“I know. Oliver you don’t have to explain yourself to me. If you want to, I’m telling you it’s okay. But I will wait if that’s what you need. I need you to be comfortable.” 

He doesn’t say anything, but I feel his head nod behind me. I try to keep the disappointment from making me go rigid, but I worry he’s able to tell. 

Moments of silence pass, and I think that’s going to be the end of it when I feel his hand moving lower down my body. 

“Oliver?” 

“Shhh,” he whispers. 

I feel that his erection hasn’t flagged and is pressing hard into me. We are both only wearing boxers, and I can feel him adjust, so his cock rests on the cleft of my ass. He sneaks his other hand under my shoulders and rubs my nipple in the same rhythm he’s rocking into my ass. 

I let out a small moan, afraid that anything more will snap Oliver back to reality. He’s rubbing his big, warm hands all over my stomach and I feel him move lower. It’s nothing more than heavy petting, but I’m so turned on. 

We never had this slow build up when we were younger. We never had the innocent touches and the moments to fumble. We are two grown men, but in this moment I feel like I’m back at the villa in Italy, and this is what our first time would have been like if we didn’t avoid each other all summer. His hips are slowly rocking back and forth, just enough friction to be frustrating. His hand dipping into my boxers, and gliding down until he grips the base of my cock. 

I do my best not to gasp out loud when I feel his fingers wrap around me. But I can’t restrain myself from pushing back against him. I want him to fuck me, to be inside of me—be one with me—but I know that’s not something he’s willing to give me while he’s still married. Something about this juvenile rutting makes the moment more exhilarating. 

He briskly rubs his palm up and down my shaft as he increases the pace of his thrusts, his breathing ragged. Oliver’s chest is pressed into my back, and I feel the sweat pooling where our flesh meets. 

Something about this feels forbidden, and I’m embarrassingly close to coming. I want Oliver to feel as good as I do, so I reach behind myself and cup his cock. He pushes hard against my hand, groaning deeply in my ear. “God, Elio. Tell me you’re close. I can’t—” 

I reach into the slit of his boxers and pull his cock out, giving him a few firm strokes before lifting my hips and sliding down my boxers to mid-thigh. Oliver shifts, lining himself back up with my ridge. I know it’s dry and must feel rough, but the vulgar moans falling out of his mouth tell me it feels good all the same. 

He’s thrusting against me hard and fast pumping my cock at the same pace. I reach back around myself and dig my nails into his thigh, trying to get him to move faster. 

I finally give in and let myself cry out, “Elio.” 

Oliver slides against me one last time as he gasps, muscles tensing, “Oliver.” 

I feel his cum hit my back as I wrap my hand around his. Just a few stokes and I join Oliver in the euphoria of long-awaited bliss. 

He’s quiet for several long moments, and I start to worry. Maybe he didn’t want to, and I pushed him too hard. Maybe he regrets what we’ve done. 

“Stop worrying. I don’t regret it,” Oliver murmurs.

It comforts me that he knows what I’m thinking. It makes me feel less vulnerable, though it’s not completely gone. “Promise?” I ask

“I promise.” Oliver’s voice sounds strained and I feel him move away from me, his hand sliding off my body.  It’s not convincing me that he’s not regretful, but soon I feel him wiping across my back. Once he deems me clean enough, he brings his shirt forward and we both clean off our hands. I take the shirt from him, throwing it across the room and lace our fingers together. 

“Does this make you happy?” Oliver whispers into my hair. 

“Very happy,” I respond before drifting off to sleep. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, so much for reading this. The tone of the epilogue may be a bit different than the rest of the story, but I like to believe Elio has grown vastly in the past two years :) 
> 
> A huge thank you to TrenchCoatBaby and EllenOFOz for helping me edit this and going over plot with me.

As I lie in my childhood bed next to Oliver, I think about the past two years.

Oliver had been right. The waiting did get difficult at times. It took us six months to finally come clean to the boys. Adam and I had a strained relationship for those first months. It took a huge fight and an emotional breakdown for Adam to admit he knew. That his dad looked at me the way Coach Winchester looked at his boyfriend. So many kids gossiped about Coach behind his back, and it scared Adam that they would talk about him or call his dad stupid names. 

We talked late into the night, discussing the importance of his fears versus mine and Oliver’s wants. I wasn’t going to put Adam in a difficult situation at school, so instead of moving in with Oliver—as we planned on doing once the boys got comfortable—I got an apartment close to where they lived. When I told Oliver that Adam’s needs were more important than my own, he said he loved me and held me tight as he cried. 

Alex, who turned out to be passionate about gay rights thanks to Coach Winchester, didn’t care at all. He simply shrugged and said, “Love is love.” Once he got to high school, Alex worked with the coach to form a Gay-Straight Alliance club. Several students came out, and the school adopted a zero-tolerance policy for sexuality bullying. 

We all speculated that Alex might be struggling with his own sexuality, given his passion for the movement, but he surprised us all the night Oliver caught him making out with Rachel, a Junior from his GSA club. 

Adam eventually came around and asked Oliver if it was okay to ask me to move in. It was one of the best moments of my life. Rebecca had been in town, staying in the guest bedroom, and she held me and cried too. She was worried Adam would never get over the split of their family, and his acceptance of mine and Oliver’s relationship was just as important to her as it was to us. 

Rebecca imagined bringing the boys to her house several weekends a month but eventually ended up spending more time in her old home than her new place.  It wasn’t like that at first. She gave Oliver and I the time we needed, but slowly we turned into a blended family. If Adam or Alex ever got teased about it at school, they never mentioned it. 

Dr. Claire retired the following year, and I took her place as the music teacher. Oliver and I disclosed our relationship, and no one seemed to care. We spent the first year trying to hide what we were to each other, but at every turn, where we expected to face discrimination, we never did. By the time we planned our first trip to Italy, everyone was comfortable with the arrangements and happy. 

My mother couldn’t wait to meet the boys and cried the first time Alex called her Grandma. It took Adam a little longer, but by the end of the second week, he was calling her his grandmother as if it had been that way his whole life. I knew the kids would never call me Dad, nor did I want them to. But them accepting my mother as a grandparent showed me just how much they viewed me as their family. 

Rebecca arrived yesterday, and just as Oliver did his first day here, she fell on her bed and slept until morning. Today she spent the morning talking with my mother and Mafalda. It made me miss my father dearly. He would have loved Rebecca. As the afternoon grew hotter, we went down to the beach to cool off in the sea. My mother stayed behind, helping Mafalda prepare lunch for all of us. 

I forgot how brutal the sun could be, and was sunburned after just a few hours of swimming. I came home, leaving Oliver to enjoy time with his family. I used to get jealous when Oliver and Rebecca were alone together. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust them, it was just hard for me to believe that she wasn’t going to try and win him back. 

The more time I spent alone with Rebecca, the more I learned about her. She loved Oliver a great deal, but nothing like the way he and I loved each other. She finally got to travel and was flourishing in her new job. She called me many nights, not wanting to bother Oliver or the boys, to cry about how much she missed her kids. Or to tell me how happy she was, and how guilty that made her feel. I assured her that though she was not there every day, the kids understood. They missed her, but they were teenage boys, they were resilient. 

Tomorrow is Adam’s seventeenth birthday. At the beginning of summer, he was upset to spend his birthday away from his friends, but he met a girl at La Danzing, and that quickly changed. Now, he can't wait to have all his and Alex’s friends over. They are going to swim, play tennis, and then go out. It made me a nervous wreck. Oliver laughed at me as I lectured Adam about not taking a girl’s virginity down by the rocks. I admitted that I spoke from experience, hoping that him thinking about me naked by the ocean would deter him from doing the same. Oliver came up behind me and whispered in my ear, “You better warn him about your bed too,” before kissing my neck. 

Adam heard him and made a disgusted noise. “Jeez, Dad. Gross.” But he sobered and asked seriously, much to his embarrassment, if his father really did take my virginity. 

We never told the boys the entire story, mostly leaving out the age difference, because we didn’t want them using it as an excuse to date older women. But when Adam asked outright, I didn’t want to lie to him. I may have sugar coated it, and told him that Oliver and I spent weeks getting to know each other, and took our time before making that decision. I have never wished to give a death glare more in my life. Oliver was in the corner snickering the whole time I painted a beautiful—though not completely accurate—love story. 

By the end, Oliver walked over to him and said, “Son, you’ll know when you’re ready. Wear a condom, stop if she says no, and make sure she has fun too. Always follow those rules, and you’ll be okay.” 

Adam blushed a bright pink and asked, “And what if I want to try it with a guy?” 

Oliver was stunned for a moment, so I stepped in and said, “Same rules apply. Just make sure it’s something you both want. Have you been having thoughts about other boys?”

“No. But...I don’t know. I guess you and Dad just make it look so normal. I didn’t know if it was, like, different or something.” Adam ducked his head as if he had done something wrong. 

“It is normal, and it’s not any different than loving someone of a different gender. If you want to try stuff with guys, it’s okay, but don’t do it because you think we want you to.” Adam didn’t respond, he only hugged me and mumbled thank you into my shoulder. 

To lighten the mood I told him, “If you’re going to the rocks at least lay a blanket down for her.” It worked because Adam laughed and pulled away. 

The second he was out of the room Oliver hoisted me up, wrapping my legs around his waist. “I love you so much, Elio. I’m going to marry you someday.” 

I cried and demanded Oliver take me to bed. He’s now laying next to me lightly snoring...as if he didn’t just turn my world upside down. Marriage wasn’t something we talked about, because it wasn’t legal. We had a few friends that had a commitment ceremony, and that was something I would like to have one day. But Oliver seemed so sure that marriage would be legalized sooner rather than later for same-sex couples. As much as I would love to have a party with all our friends and family committing myself to the man I loved since I was seventeen, I would rather wait for our union to be legal. I have spent most of my life waiting for Oliver. Being his husband would be one more thing worth the wait. 


End file.
